iViODSSRN 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 


BEQUEST  OF 

Alice  R.  Hilgard 


THE    MODERN    LIBRARY 

OF  THE  WORLD'S  BEST  BOOKS 


COMPLETE  POETICAL  WORKS 
OF  FRANCIS  THOMPSON 


Turn  to  the  end  of  this 
volume  for  a  complete 
list  of  titles  in  the 
Modern  Library. 


COMPLETE  Poetical  works 

OF   FRANCIS  THOMPSON 


^f^i^ 


BONI  AND  LIVERIGHT,  INC. 


PUBLISHERS 


NEW   YORK 


Printed  ill 

the  United  States  of  America 


GIFT. 


DEDICATION  OF  POEMS     /  9  /"-^ 

(1893)  /^)«   )/l^ 

To  Wilfrid  and  Alice  Meynell 

If  the  rose  in  meek  duty- 
May  dedicate  humbly 
To  her  grower  the  beauty 

Wherewith  she  is  comely; 
If  the  mine  to  the  miner 

The  jewels  that  pined  in  it, 
Earth  to  diviner 

The  springs  he  divined  in  it ; 
To  the  grapes  the  wine-pitcher 

Their  juice  that  was  crushed  in  it, 
Viol  to  its  witcher 

The  music  lay  hushed  in  it; 
If  the  lips  may  pay  Gladness 

In  laughters  she  wakened, 
And  the  heart  to  its  sadness 

Weeping  unslakened, 
If  the  hid  and  sealed  coffer. 

Whose  having  not  his  is. 
To  the  loosers  may  proffer 

Their  finding — here  this  is; 
Their  lives  if  all  livers 

To  the  Life  of  all  living,— 
To  you,  O  dear  givers! 

I  give  your  o^vn  giving. 


A  NOTE  BY  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S 
LITERARY  EXECUTOR 

In  making  this  Collection  I  have  been  governed 
by  Francis  Thompson's  express  instructions,  or 
guided  by  a  knowledge  of  his  feelings  and  pref- 
erences acquired  during  an  unbroken  intimacy  of 
nineteen  years.  His  own  list  of  new  inclusions  and 
his  own  suggested  reconsiderations  of  his  formerly 
published  text  have  been  followed  in  this  edition 
of  his  Poetical  Works. 
May  1913.  W,  M. 


CONTENTS 


Dedication 

Poems  on  Children 

Daisy i 

The  Poppy 3 

To  Monica  Thought  Dying        .        .        •        .  6 

The  Making  of  Viola 9 

To  My  Godchild 12 

To  Olivia 15 

Little   Jesus 15 

Sister  Songs i^ 

Love  in  Dian's  Lap 

Proemion 59 

Before  Her  Portrait  in  Youth  ....  64 

To  A  Poet  Breaking  Silence      ....  66 

'Manus  Animam  Pinxit' 68 

A  Carrier  Song 71 

ScALA  Jacobi  Portaque  Eburnea  ....  74 

Gilded  Gold 75 

Her  Portrait 77 

Epilogue  to  the  Poet's  Sitter    ....  82 

DOMUS  TuA 84 

In  Her  Paths 84 

After  Her  Going  .         »         c        o        .        .        .  85 

Beneath  a  Photograph 86 

The  Hound  of  Heaven SS 

Ode  to  the  Setting  Sun 94 


CONTENTS 

After-strain 103 

To  THE  Dead  Cardinal  of  Westminster     .        .105 

a  corymbus  for  autumn 1x2 

Ecclesiastical  Ballads 

The  Veteran  of  Heaven 117 

LiLiuM  Regis 118 

Translations 

A  Sunset 120 

Heard  on  the  Mountain 122 

An  Echo  of  Victor  Hugo 126 

Miscellaneous  Poems 

Dream-tryst 128 

Buona  Notte 130 

The  Passion  of  Mary 131 

L'Envoy 132 

Messages 132 

At  Lord's i33 

Love  and  the  Child 134 

Daphne 134 

Absence 136 

A  Fallen  Yew 138 

A  Judgment  in  Heaven 141 

The  Sere  of  the  Leaf 147 

To  Stars 152 

Lines  for  a  Drawing  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Night  154 

Orison-tryst 155 

'Whereto  Art  Thou  Come'         .         .        .         .156 

Song  of  the  Hours i57 

Pastoral       .        .        „        .        o        «        .        .  164 


CONTENTS 

Past  Thinking  of  Solomon        .        .        .        .166 

A  Dead  Astronomer 167 

Cheated  Elsie      . 167 

The  Fair  Inconstant 170 

Threatened  Tears 171 

The  House  of  Sorrows 172 

Insentience 174 

Envoy i75 

Dedication  of  New  Poems 176 

Sight  and  Insight 

The  Mistress  of  Vision 177 

Contemplation 186 

'By  Reason  of  Thy  Law' 189 

The  Dread  of  Height 190 

Orient  Ode .  i94 

New  Year's  Chimes 201 

From  the  Night  of  Forebeing    ....  203 

Any  Saint 215 

AssuMPTA  Maria 222 

Carmen  Genesis 226 

Ad  Castitatem 230 

The  After  Woman .233 

Grace  of  the  Way 236 

Retrospect .238 

A  Narrow  Vessel 

A  Girl's  Sin 240 

Love  Declared 246 

The  Way  of  a  Maid 247 

Beginning  of  End 248 


CONTENTS 

Penelope 249 

The  End  of  It 250 

Epilogue 250 

Ultima 
Love's  Almsman's  Plaineth  His  Fare  ,        .        .252 

A  Holocaust 253 

My  Lady  the  Tyranness 254 

Onto  This  Last 257 

Ultimum 259 

An  Anthem  of  Earth 

Proemion 261 

Anthem 262 

Miscellaneous  Odes 

Laus  Amara  Doloris    .        .        .                 ,        •  275 

A  Captain  of  Song 280 

Against  Urania 282 

To  THE  English  Martyrs 284 

Ode  for  the  Diamond  Jubilee  of  Queen  Vic- 
toria, 1897 290 

The  Nineteenth  Century 298 

Peace    .        .        . 304 

Cecil  Rhodes 308 

Of  Nature:  Laud  and  Plaint      .        .        .        .312 

Sonnets 
Ad  Amicam    .         .        .        .         .        .        .        .319 

To  A  Child  .         , 322 

Hermes 323 

House  of  Bondage 324 


CONTENTS 

The  Heart 324 

Desideratum  Indesideratum        .         .        .         -325 

Love's  Varlets 326 

NoN  Pax — Expectatio 326 

Not  Even  in  Dream 327 

Miscellaneous  Poems 

A  Hollow  Wood 32S 

To  Daisies 329 

To  THE  Sinking  Sun 33  ^ 

A  May  Burden 333 

July  Fugitive 334 

Field  Flower 337 

To  A  Snow-flake 339 

A  Question 339 

The  Cloud's  Swan-song 34 1 

Of  My  Friend 345 

To  Monica— After  Nine  Years   .         .        .        .346 
A  Double  Need    .         .         .        .        •        •         .348 

Grief's  Harmonics 349 

Memorat  Memoria 349 

NOCTURN 35^ 

Heaven  and  Hell 352 

'Chose  Vue' 352 

St.  Monica 352 

Marriage  in  Two  Moods 353 

All  Flesh 355 

The  Kingdom  of  God 35^ 

The  Singer  Saith  of  His  Song    .        .        .        -357 


POEMS  ON  CHILDREN 


DAISY 

Where  the  thistle  lifts  a  purple  crown 

Six  foot  out  of  the  turf, 
And  the  harebell  shakes  on  the  windy  hill- 

O  breath  of  the  distant  surf! — 

The  hills  look  over  on  the  South, 
And  southward  dreams  the  sea; 

And  with  the  sea-breeze  hand  in  hand 
Came  innocence  and  she. 

Where  'mid  the  gorse  the  raspberry- 
Red  for  the  gatherer  springs, 

Two  children  did  we  stray  and  talk 
Wise,  idle,  childish  things. 

She  listened  with  big-lipped  surprise, 
Breast-deep  mid  flower  and  spine: 

Her  skin  was  like  a  grape  whose  veins 
Run  snow  instead  of  wine. 

She  knew  not  those  sweet  words  she  spake, 

Nor  knew  her  own  sweet  way ; 
But  there's  never  a  bird,  so  sweet  a  song 

Thronged  in  whose  throat  that  day. 


FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Oh,  there  were  flowers  in  Storrington 

On  the  turf  and  on  the  spray; 
But  the  sweetest  flower  on  Sussex  hills 

Was  the  Daisy-flower  that  day! 

Her  beauty  smoothed  earth's  furrowed  face. 

She  gave  me  tokens  three: — 
A  look,  a  word  of  her  winsome  mouth, 

And  a  wild  raspberry. 

A  berry  red,  a  guileless  look, 

A  still  word, — strings  of  sand! 
And  yet  they  made  my  wild,  wild  heart 

Fly  down  to  her  little  hand. 

For  standing  artless  as  the  air, 

And  candid  as  the  skies, 
She  took  the  berries  with  her  hand, 

And  the  love  with  her  sweet  eyes. 

The  fairest  things  have  fleetest  end, 
Their  scent  survives  their  close: 

But  the  rose's  scent  is  bitterness 
To  him  that  loved  the  rose. 

She  looked  a  little  wistfully, 
Then  went  her  sunshine  way: — 

The  sea's  eye  had  a  mist  on  it. 
And  the  leaves  fell  from  the  day. 

She  went  her  unremembering  way, 

She  went  and  left  in  me 
The  pang  of  all  the  partings  gone. 

And  partings  yet  to  be. 


POEMS  ON  CHILDREN 

She  left  me  marvelling  why  my  soul 
Was  sad  that  she  was  glad; 

At  all  the  sadness  in  the  sweet, 
The  sweetness  in  the  sad. 

Still,  still  I  seemed  to  see  her,  still 
Look  up  with  soft  replies. 

And  take  the  berries  with  her  hand, 
And  the  love  with  her  lovely  eyes. 

Nothing  begins,  and  nothing  ends, 
That  is  not  paid  with  moan; 

For  we  are  born  in  other's  pain, 
And  perish  in  our  own. 


THE  POPPY 
To  Monica 

Summer  set  lip  to  earth's  bosom  bare, 
And  left  the  flushed  print  in  a  poppy  there: 
Like  a  yawn  of  fire  from  the  grass  it  came. 
And  the  fanning  wind  puffed  it  to  flapping  flame. 

With  burnt  mouth,  red  like  a  lion's,  it  drank 
The  blood  of  the  sun  as  he  slaughtered  sank, 
And  dipped  its  cup  in  the  purpurate  shine 
When  the  Eastern  conduits  ran  with  wine. 

Till  it  grew  lethargied  with  fierce  bliss. 
And  hot  as  a  swinked  gipsy  is, 
And  drowsed  in  sleepy  savageries. 
With  mouth  wide  a-pout  for  a  sultry  kisz. 


FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

A  child  and  man  paced  side  by  side, 
Treading  the  skirts  of  eventide; 
But  between  the  clasp  of  his  hand  and  hers 
Lay,  felt  not,  twenty  withered  years. 

She  turned,  with  the  rout  of  her  dusk  South  hair, 
And  saw  the  sleeping  gipsy  there: 
And  snatched  and  snapped  it  in  swift  child's  whim, 
With — "Keep  it,  long  as  you  live!" — to  him. 

And  his  smile,  as  nymphs  from  their  laving  meres, 
Trembled  up  from  a  bath  of  tears; 
And  joy,  like  a  mew  sea-rocked  apart, 
Tossed  on  the  waves  of  his  troubled  heart. 

For  he  saw  what  she  did  not  see, 
That — as  kindled  by  its  own  fervency — 
The  verge  shrivelled  inward  smoulderingly: 
And  suddenly  'twixt  his  hand  and  hers 
He  knew  the  twenty  withered  years — 
No  flower,  but  twenty  shrivelled  years. 

"Was  never  such  thing  until  this  hour," 
Low  to  his  heart  he  said;  "the  flower 
Of  sleep  brings  wakening  to  me. 
And  of  oblivion,  memory." 

"Was  never  this  thing  to  me,"  he  said, 
"Though  with  bruised  poppies  my  feet  are  red!" 
And  again  to  his  o^vn  heart  very  low: 
"Oh  child!  I  love,  for  I  love  and  know; 


POEMS  ON  CHILDREN 

"But  you,  who  love  nor  know  at  all 
The  diverse  chambers  in  Love's  guest-hall, 
Where  some  rise  early,  few  sit  long: 
In  how  differing  accents  hear  the  throng 
His  great  Pentecostal  tongue; 

*'\Vho  know  not  fove  from  amity, 

Nor  my  reported  self  from  me; 

A  fair  fit  gift  is  this,  meseems, 

You  give — this  withering  flower  of  dreams. 

"O  frankly  fickle,  and  fickly  true, 
Do  you  know  what  the  days  will  do  to  you? 
To  your  love  and  you  what  the  days  will  do, 
O  frankly  fickle,  and  fickly  true? 

"You  have  loved  me,  Fair,  three  lives — or  days: 
'Twill  pass  with  the  passing  of  my  face. 
But  where  /  go,  your  face  goes  too. 
To  watch  lest  I  play  false  to  you. 

"I  am  but,  my  sweet,  your  foster-lover, 
Knowing  well  when  certain  years  are  over 
You  vanish  from  me  to  another; 
Yet  I  know,  and  love,  like  the  foster-mother. 

"So,  frankly  fickle,  and  fickly  true! 

For  my  brief  life-while  I  take  from  you 

This  token,  fair  and  fit,  meseems. 

For  me — this  withering  flower  of  dreams.'^ 


FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

The  sleep-flower  sways  in  the  wheat  its  head, 
Heavy  with  dreams,  as  that  with  bread: 
The  goodly  grain  and  the  sun-flushed  sleeper 
The  reaper  reaps,  and  Time  the  reaper. 

I  hang  'mid  men  my  needless  head, 

And  my  fruit  is  dreams,  as  theirs  is  bread: 

The  goodly  men  and  the  sun-hazed  sleeper 

Time  shall  reap,  but  after  the  reaper 

The  world  shall  glean  of  me,  me  the  sleeper. 

Love,  love!  your  flower  of  withered  dream 
In  leaved  rhyme  lies  safe,  I  deem. 
Sheltered  and  shut  in  a  nook  of  rhyme, 
From  the  reaper  man,  and  his  reaper  Time. 

Love!  /  fall  into  the  claws  of  Time: 
Bu'  lasts  within  a  leaved  rhyme 
All  that  the  world  of  me  esteems — 
My  withered  dreams,  my  withered  dreams. 


TO  MONICA  THOUGHT  DYING 

You,  O  the  piteous  you! 

Who  all  the  long  night  through 

Anticipatedly 

Disclose  yourself  to  me 

Already  in  the  ways 
Beyond  our  human  comfortable  days; 

How  can  you  deem  what  Death 

Impitiably  saith 

To  me,  who  listening  wake 

For  your  poor  sake? 


i>OEMS  ON  CHILDREN  7 

When  a  grown  woman  dies 
You  know  we  think  unceasingly 
What  things  she  said,  how  sweet,  how  wise; 
And  these  do  make  our  misery. 

But  you  were  (you  to  me 
The  dead  anticipatedly ! ) 
You — eleven  years,  was't  not,  or  so? — 

Were  just  a  child,  you  know; 
And  so  you  never  said 

Things  sweet  immeditatably  and  wise 
To  interdict  from  closure  my  wet  eyes: 

But  foolish  things,  my  dead,  my  dead! 

Little  and  laughable. 

Your  age  that  fitted  well. 
And  was  it  such  things  all  unmemorable, 

Was  it  such  things  could  make 
Me  sob  all  night  for  our  implacable  sake? 

Yet,  as  you  said  to  me. 
In  pretty  make-believe  of  revelry, 

So  the  night  long  said  Death 

With  his  magniloquent  breath; 
(And  that  remem-bered  laughter. 
Which  in  our  daily  uses  followed  after, 
Was  all  untuned  to  pity  and  to  awe:) 

'M  cup  of  chocolate, 

One  farthing  is  the  rate, 

You  drink  it  through  a  straw" 

How  could  I  know,  how  know 
Those  laughing  words  when  drenched  with  sobbing  so? 
Another  voice  than  yours,  he  hath. 

My  dear,  was't  worth  his  breath. 
His  mighty  utterance? — yet  he  saith,  and  saith! 


FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

This  dreadful  Death  to  his  own  dreadfulness 

Doth  dreadful  wrong, 
This  dreadful  childish  babble  on  his  tongue. 
That  iron  tongue  made  to  speak  sentences, 
And  wisdom  insupportably  complete, 
Why  should  it  only  say  the  long  night  through, 

In  mimicry  of  you, — 

"A  cup  of  chocolate, 

One  farthing  is  the  rate, 
You  drink  it  through  a  straw,  a  straw,  a  straw/" 

Oh,  of  all  sentences, 
Piercingly  incomplete! 
Why  did  you  teach  that  fatal  mouth  to  draw. 
Child,  impermissible  awe, 
From  your  old  trivialness? 
Why  have  you  done  me  this 
Most  unsustainable  wrong, 
And  into  Death's  control 
Betrayed  the  secret  places  of  my  soul? — 

Teaching  him  that  his  lips, 
Uttering  their  native  earthquake  and  eclipse, 

Could  never  so  avail 
To  rend  from  hem  to  hem  the  ultimate  veil 
Of  this  most  desolate 
Spirit,  and  leave  it  stripped  and  desecrate, — 

Nay,  never  so  have  wrung 
From  eyes  and  speech  weakness  unmanned,  unm.eet. 
As  when  his  terrible  dotage  to  repeat 
Its  little  lesson  learneth  at  your  feet; 
As  when  he  sits  among 
His  sepulchres,  to  play 


POEMS  ON  CHILDREN  «; 

With  broken  toys  your  hand  has  cast  away, 
With  dereHct  trinkets  of  the  darhng  young. 
Why  have  you  taught — that  he  might  so  complete 

His  awful  panoply 

From  your  cast  playthings — why, 
This  dreadful  childish  babble  to  his  tongue, 

Dreadful  and  sweet? 


THE  MAKING  OF  VIOLA 

I 
The  Father  of  Heaven. 

Spin,  daughter  Mary,  spin, 
Twirl  your  wheel  with  silver  din; 
Spin,  daughter  Mary,  spin, 
Spin  a  tress  for  Viola. 


Angels. 


Spin,  Queen  Mary,  a 
Brown  tress  for  Viola! 


II 

The  Father  of  Heaven. 

Weave,  hands  angelical. 
Weave  a  woof  of  flesh  to  pall- 
Weave,  hands  angelical — 
Flesh  to  pall  our  Viola. 

Angels. 

Weave,  singing  brothers,  a 
Velvet  flesh  for  Viola! 


10  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

III 
The  Father  of  Heaven. 

Scoop,  young  Jesus,  for  her  eyes, 
Wood-browned  pools  of  Paradise — 
Young  Jesus,  for  the  eyes. 
For  the  eyes  of  Viola. 


Angels. 


Tint,  Prince  Jesus,  a 
Dusked  eye  for  Viola! 


IV 

The  Father  of  Heaven. 

Cast  a  star  therein  to  drown, 
Like  a  torch  in  cavern  brown, 
Sink  a  burning  star  to  drown 
Whelmed  in  eyes  of  Viola. 


Angels. 


Lave,  Prince  Jesus,  a 
Star  in  eyes  of  Viola! 


V 

The  Father  of  Heaven. 

Breathe,  Lord  Paraclete, 
To  a  bubbled  crystal  meet — 
Breathe,  Lord  Paraclete- 
Crystal  soul  for  Viola. 


Angels. 


Breathe,  Regal  Spirit,  a 
Flashing  soul  for  Viola! 


POEMS  ON  CHILDREN  ii 

Vi 


The  Father  of  Heaven. 

Child-angels,  from  your  wings 
Fall  the  roseal  hoverings, 
Child-angels,  from  your  wings, 
On  the  cheeks  of  Viola. 


Angels. 


Linger,  rosy  reflex,  a 
Quenchless  stain,  on  Viola! 


VII 

All  things  being  accomplished,  saith  the  Father  of  Heaven: 
Bear  her  down,  and  bearing,  sing, 
Bear  her  do\Yn  on  spyless  wing. 
Bear  her  down,  and  bearing,  sing, 
With  a  sound  of  viola. 


Angels. 


Angels. 


Music  as  her  name  is,  a 
Sweet  sound  of  Viola! 

VIII 

AVheeling  angels,  past  espial. 
Danced  her  down  with  sound  of  viol; 
WTieeling  angels,  past  espial. 
Descanting  on  "Viola." 

Sing,  in  our  footing,  a 
Lovely  lilt  of  "Viola!" 


12  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 


Baby  smiled,  mother  wailed, 
Earthward  while  the  sweetling  sailed; 
Mother  smiled,  baby  wailed, 
When  to  earth  came  Viola. 
And  her  elders  shall  say: 

So  soon  have  we  taught  you  a 
Way  to  weep,  poor  Viola! 

X 

Smile,  sweet  baby,  smile. 
For  you  will  have  weeping- while; 
Native  in  your  Heaven  is  smile, — 
But  your  weeping,  Viola? 

Whence  your  smiles  we  know,  but  ah! 
Whence  your  weeping,  Viola? — 
Our  first  gift  to  you  is  a 
Gift  of  tears,  my  Viola! 


TO  MY  GODCHILD 

Francis  M.  W.  M. 

This  labouring,  vast,  Tellurian  galleon, 

Riding  at  anchor  off  the  orient  sun. 

Had  broken  its  cable,  and  stood  out  to  space 

Down  same  frore  Arctic  of  the  aerial  ways: 

And  now,  back  warping  from  the  inclement  main, 

Its  vaporous  shroudage  drenched  with  icy  rain, 

It  swung  into  its  azure  roads  again; 

When,  floated  on  the  prosperous  sun-gale,  you 

Lit,  a  white  halcyon  auspice,  'mid  our  frozen  crew. 


POEMS  ON  CHILDREN  13 

To  the  Sun,  stranger,  surely  you  belong, 

Giver  of  golden  days  and  golden  song; 

Nor  is  it  by  an  all-unhappy  plan 

You  bear  the  name  of  me,  his  constant  Magian. 

Yet  ah !  from  any  other  that  it  came. 

Lest  fated  to  my  fate  you  be,  as  to  my  name. 

When  at  first  those  tidings  did  they  bring, 

My  heart  turned  troubled  at  the  ominous  thing: 

Though  well  may  such  a  title  him  endower, 

For  whom  a  poet's  prayer  implores  a  poet's  power. 

The  Assisian,  who  kept  plighted  faith  to  three, 

To  Song,  to  Sanctitude,  and  Poverty, 

(In  two  alone  of  whom  most  singers  prove 

A  fatal  faithfulness  of  during  love!); 

He  the  sweet  Sales,  of  whom  we  scarcely  ken 

How  God  he  could  love  more,  he  so  loved  men; 

The  crown  and  crowned  of  Laura  and  Italy; 

And  Fletcher's  fellow — from  these,  and  not  from  me, 

Take  you  your  name,  and  take  your  legacy! 

Or,  if  a  right  successive  you  declare 

When  worms,  or  ivies,  intertwine  my  hair. 

Take  but  this  Poesy  that  now  followeth 

My  clayey  best  with  sullen  servile  breath, 

Made  then  your  happy  freedman  by  testating  death. 

My  song  I  do  but  hold  for  you  in  trust, 

I  ask  you  but  to  blossom  from  my  dust. 

When  you  have  compassed  all  weak  I  began, 

Diviner  poet,  and  ah!  diviner  man; 

The  man  at  feud  with  the  perduring  child 

In  you  before  Song's  altar  nobly  reconciled; 

From  the  wise  heavens  I  half  shall  smile  to  see 

How  little  a  world,  which  owned  you,  needed  me. 


14  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

If,  while  you  keep  the  vigils  of  the  night, 

For  your  wild  tears  make  darkness  all  too  bright, 

Some  lone  orb  through  your  lonely  windovv  peeps, 

As  it  played  lover  over  your  sweet  sleeps; 

Think  it  a  golden  crevice  in  the  sky, 

Which  I  have  pierced  but  to  behold  you  by! 

And  when,  immortal  mortal,  droops  your  head. 

And  you,  the  child  of  deathless  song,  are  dead; 

Then,  as  you  search  with  unaccustomed  glance 

The  ranks  of  Paradise  for  my  countenance, 

Turn  not  your  tread  along  the  Uranian  sod 

Among  the  bearded  counsellors  of  God; 

For  if  in  Eden  as  on  earth  are  we, 

I  sure  shall  keep  a  younger  company: 

Pass  where  beneath  their  ranged  gonfalons 

The  starry  cohorts  shake  their  shielded  suns, 

The  dreadful  mass  of  their  enridged  spears; 

Pass  where  majestical  the  eternal  peers, 

The  stately  choice  of  the  great  Saintdom,  meet — 

A  silvern  segregation,  globed  complete 

In  sandalled  shadow  of  the  Triune  feet; 

Pass  by  where  wait,  young  poet-wayfarer. 

Your  cousined  clusters,  emulous  to  share 

With  you  the  roseal  lightnings  burnin.g^  'mid  their  hair; 

Pass  the  crystalline  sea,  the  Lampads  seven:  — 

Look  for  me  in  the  nurseries  of  Heaven. 


POEMS  ON  CHILDREN  15 

TO  OLIVIA 

I  FEAR  to  love  thee,  Sweet,  because 
Love's  the  ambassador  of  loss; 
White  flake  of  childhood,  clinging  so 
To  my  soiled  raiment,  thy  shy  snow 
At  tenderest  touch  will  shrink  and  go. 
Love  me  not,   delightful   child. 
My  heart,  by  many  snares  beguiled, 
Has  grown  timorous  and  wild. 
It  would  fear  thee  not  at  all, 
Wert  thou  not  so  harmless-small. 
Because  thy  arrows,  not  yet  dire, 
Are  still  unbarbed  w^ith  destined  fire, 
I  fear  thee  more  than  hadst  thou  stood 
Full-panoplied  in  womanhood. 


LITTLE  JESUS 

Ex  ore  injantium,  Deus,  et  lactentium 
perfecisti  laudem 

Little  Jesus,  wast  Thou  shy 

Once,  and  just  so  small  as  I? 

And  what  did  it  feel  like  to  be 

Out  of  Heaven,  and  just  like  me? 

Didst  Thou  sometimes  think  of  there. 

And  ask  where  all  the  angels  were? 

I  should  think  that  I  would  cry 

For  my  house  all  made  of  sky; 

I  would  look  about  the  air. 

And  w^onder  where  my  angels  w^re; 


1 6  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

And  at  waking  'twould  distress  me — 

Not  an  angel  there  to  dress  me! 

Hadst  Thou  ever  any  toys, 

Like  us  little  girls  and  boys? 

And  didst  Thou  play  in  Heaven  with  all 

The  angels  that  were  not  too  tall, 

With  stars  for  marbles?  Did  the  things 

Play  Can  you  see  me?  through  their  wings? 

And  did  Thy  Mother  let  Thee  spoil 

Thy  robes,  with  playing  on  our  soil? 

How  nice  to  have  them  always  new 

In  Heaven,  because  'twas  quite  clean  blue! 

Didst  Thou  kneel  at  night  to  pray, 
And  didst  Thou  join  Thy  hands,  this  way? 
And  did  they  tire  sometimes,  being  young, 
And  make  the  prayer  seem  very  long? 
And  dost  Thou  like  it  best,  that  we 
Should  join  our  hands  to  pray  to  Thee? 
I  used  to  think,  before  I  knew. 
The  prayer  not  said  unless  we  do. 
And  did  Thy  Mother  at  the  night 
Kiss  Thee,  and  fold  the  clothes  in  right? 
And  didst  Thou  feel  quite  good  in  bed, 
Kissed,  and  sweet,  and  Thy  prayers  said? 

Thou  canst  not  have  forgotten  all 
That  it  feels  like  to  be  small: 
And  Thou  know'st  I  cannot  pray 
To  Thee  in  my  father's  way — 
When  Thou  wast  so  little,  say, 
Couldst  Thou  talk  Thy  Father's  way?— 


POEMS  ON  CHILDREN  17- 

So,  a  little  Child,  come  down 
And  hear  a  child's  tongue  like  Thy  own; 
Take  me  by  the  hand  and  walk. 
And  listen  to  my  baby-talk. 
To  Thy  Father  show  my  prayer 
(He  will  look,  Thou  art  so  fair), 
And  say:   "O  Father,  I,  Thy  Son, 
Bring  the  prayer  of  a  little  one." 

And  He  will  smile,  that  children's  tongue 
Has  not  changed  since  Thou  wast  young  I 


I 


SISTER  SONGS 

AN  OFFERING   TO   TWO   SISTERS 
MONICA    &   MADELINE    (SYLVIA) 

THE  PROEM 

Shrewd  winds  and  shrill — were  these  the  speech  of  May? 
A  ragged,  slag-grey  sky — invested  so, 
Mary's  spoilt  nursling!  wert  thou  wont  to  go? 
Or  thou,  Sun-god  and  song-god,  say 
Could  singer  pipe  one  tiniest  linnet-lay, 

Wliile  Song  did  turn  away  his  face  from  song? 

Or  who  could  be 
In  spirit  or  in  body  hale  for  long, — 

Old  ^cculap's  best  Master! — lacking  thee? 
At  length,  then,  thou  art  here! 
On  the  earth's  lethed  ear 
Thy  voice  of  light  rings  out  exultant,  strong; 
Through  dreams  she  stirs  and  murmurs  at  that  summons 
dear: 
Fiom  its  red  leash  my  heart  strains  tamelessly, 
For  Spring  leaps  in  the  womb  of  the  young  year! 
Nay.  was  it  not  brought  forth  before. 
And  we  waited,  to  behold  it, 
Till  the  sun's  hand  should  unfold  it, 
\^^nat  the  year's  young  bosom  bore? 
Even  so;  it  came,  nor  knew  we  that  it  came, 

t8 


SISTER  SONGS  19 

In  the  sun's  eclipse. 
Yet  the  birds  have  plighted  vows, 
And  from  the  branches  piped  each  other's  name; 
Yet  the  season  all  the  boughs 
Has  kindled  to  the  finger-tips, — 
Mark  yonder,  how  the  long  laburnum  drips 
Its  jocund  spilth  of  fire,  its  honey  of  wild  flame! 
Yea,  and  myself  put  on  swift  quickening, 
And  answer  to  the  presence  of  a  sudden  Spring. 

From  cloud-zoned  pinnacles  of  the  secret  spirit 

Song  falls  precipitant  in  dizzying  streams; 
And,  like  a  mountain-hold  when  war-shouts  stir  it, 
The  mind's  recessed  fastness  casts  to  light 
Its  gleaming  multitudes,  that  from  every  height 

Unfurl  the  flaming  of  a  thousand  dreams. 
Now  therefore,  thou  who  bring'st-the  year  to  birth, 

Who  guid'st  the  bare  and  dabbled  feet  of  May; 
Sweet  stem  to  that  rose  Christ,  who  from  the  earth 
Suck'st  our  poor  prayers,  conveying  them  to  Him; 
Be  aidant,  tender  Lady,  to  my  lay! 
Of  thy  two  maidens  somewhat  must  I  say, 
Ere  shadowy  twilight  lashes,  drooping,  dim 
Day's  dreamy  eyes  from  us; 
Ere  eve  has  struck  and  furled 
The  beamy-textured  tent  transpicuous. 

Of  webbed  ccerule  wrought  and  woven  calms. 
Whence  has  paced  forth  the  lambent-footed  sun. 
And  thou  disclose  my  flower  of  song  upcurled, 
Who  from  thy  fair  irradiant  palms 
Scatterest  all  love  and  loveliness  as  alms; 
Yea,  holy  one,     • 
Who  coin'st  thyself  to  beauty  for  the  world! 


20  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Then,  Spring's  little  children,  your  lauds  do  ye  tipraise 
To  Sylvia,  O  Sylvia,  her  sweet,  feat  ways! 
Your  lovesome  labours  lay  away, 
And  trick  you  out  in  holiday, 
For  syllabling  to  Sylvia; 
And  all  you  birds  on  branches,  lave  your  mouths  with  May, 
To  bear  with  me  this  burthen, 
For  singing  to  Sylvia. 


PART  THE  FIRST 

The  leaves  dance,  the  leaves  sing, 
The  leaves  dance  in  the  breath  of  the  Spring. 
I  bid  them  dance, 

I  bid  them  sing, 
For  the  limpid  glance 
Of  my  ladyling; 
For  the  gift  to  the  Spring  of  a  dewier  spring, 
For  God's  good  grace  of  this  ladyling! 
I  know  in  the  lane,  by  the  hedgerow  track, 

The  long,  broad  grasses  underneath 
Are  warted  with  rain  like  a  toad's  knobbed  back; 

But  here  May  weareth  a  rainless  wreath. 
In  the  new-sucked  milk  of  the  sun's  bosom 
Is  dabbled  the  mouth  of  the  daisy-blossom: 

The  smouldering  rosebud  chars  through  its  sheath; 
The  lily  stirs  her  snowy  limbs, 

Ere  she  swims 
Naked  up  through  her  cloven  green. 
Like  the  wave-born  Lady  of  Love  Hellene; 
And  the  scattered  snowdrop  exquisite 
Twinkles  and  gleams. 


SISTER  SONGS  21 

As  if  the  showers  of  the  sunny  beams 
Were  splashed  from  the  earth  in  drops  of  light. 
Everything 

That  is  child  of  Spring 

Casts  its  bud  or  blossoming 

Upon  the  stream  of  my  delight. 

Tlieir  voices,  that  scents  are,  now  let  them  upraise 
To  Sylvia,  O  Sylvia,  her  sweet,  feat  ways; 
Their  lovely  mother  them  array. 
And  prank  them  out  in  holiday. 
For  syllabling  to  Sylvia; 
And  all  the  birds  on  branches  lave  their  mouths  with  May, 
To  bear  with  me  this  burthen, 
For  singing  to  Sylvia. 

While  thus  I  stood  in  mazes  bound 

Of  vernal  sorcery, 
I  heard  a  dainty  dubious  sound, 

As  of  goodly  melody; 
Which  first  was  faint  as  if  in  swound, 

Then  burst  so  suddenly 
In  warring  concord  all  around. 
That,  whence  this  thing  might  be, 

To  see 
The  very  marrow  longed  in  me! 

It  seemed  of  air,  it  seemed  of  ground, 
And  never  any  witchery 

Drawn  from  pipe,  or  reed,  or  string, 

Made  such  dulcet  ravishing. 

'Twas  like  no  earthly  instrument. 

Yet  had  something  of  them  all 

In  its  rise,  and  in  its  fall; 


22  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

As  if  in  one  sweet  consort  there  were  blent 

Those  archetypes  celestial 
Which  our  endeavouring  instruments  recall. 
So  heavenly  flutes  made  murmurous  plain 
To  heavenly  viols,  that  again 
— Aching  with  music — wailed  back  pain; 
Regals  release  their  notes,  which  rise 
Welling,  like  tears  from  heart  to  eyes; 
And  the  harp  thrills  with  thronging  sighs. 
Horns  in  mellow  flattering 
Parley  with  the  cithern-string:  — 
Hark! — the  floating,  long-drawn  note 
Woos  the  throbbing  cithern-string! 

Their  petty,  petty  prating  those  citherns  sure  upaisi 
For  homage  unto  Sylvia,  her  sweet,  feat  ways: 
Those  flutes  do  flute  their  vowelled  lay, 
Their  lovely  languid  language  say. 
For  lisping  to  Sylvia; 
Those  viols'  lissom  bowings  break  the  heart  of  May^ 
And  harps  harp  their  burthen. 
For  singing  to  Sylvia. 

Now  at  that  music  and  that  mirth 
Rose,  as  'twere,  veils  from  earth; 

And  I  spied 

How  beside 
Bud,  bell,  bloom,  an  elf 
Stood,  or  was  the  flower  itself; 

'Mid  radiant  air 

All  the  fair 
Frequency  swayed  in  irised  wavers 
Some  against  the  gleaming  rims 


SISTER  SONGS  23 


Their  bosoms  prest 
Of  the  kingcups,  to  the  brims 
Filled  with  sun,  and  their  white  limbs 
Bathed  in  those  golden  lavers; 
Some  on  the  brown,  glowing  breast 
Of  that  Indian  maid,  the  pansy 
(Through  its  tenuous  veils  confest 
Of  swathing  light),  in  a  quaint  fancy 
Tied  her  knot  of  yellow  favours; 
Others  dared  open  draw 
Snapdragon's  dreadful  jaw: 
Some,  just  sprung  from  out  the  soil, 
Sleeked  and  shook  their  rumpled  fans 

Dropt  with  sheen 

Of  moony  green; 
Others,  not  yet  extricate. 
On  their  hands  leaned  their  weight, 
And  writhed  them  free  with  mickle  toil, 
Still  folded  in  their  veiny  vans: 
And  all  with  an  unsought  accord 
Sang  together  from  the  sward; 
Whence  had  come,  and  from  sprites 
Yet  unseen,  those  delights. 
As  of  tempered  musics  blent. 
Which  had  given  me  such  content. 
For  haply  our  best  instrument, 
Pipe  or  cithern,  stopped  or  strung, 
Mimics  but  some  spirit  tongue. 

Their  amiable  voices,  I  bid  them  upraise 
To  Sylvia,  O  Sylvia,  her  sweet,  feat  ways; 

Their  lovesome  labours  laid  away, 

To  linger  out  this  holiday 


24  JbRANCiS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

hi  syllabling  to  Sylvia; 
While  all  the  birds  on  branches  lave  their  mouths  with  May_ 
To  bear  with  me  this  burthen. 
For  singing  to  Sylvia. 

Next  I  saw,  wonder-whist, 

How  from  the  atmosphere  a  mist. 

So  it  seemed,  slow  uprist; 

And,  looking  from  those  elfin  swarms, 

I  was  'ware 

How  the  air 
Was  all  populous  with  forms 
Of  the  Hours,  floating  down, 
Like  Nereids  through  a  watery  town. 
Some,  with  languors  of  waved  arms, 
Fiuctuous  oared  their  flexile  way; 
Some  were  borne  half  resupine 
On  the  aerial  hyaline, 
Their  fluid  limbs  and  rare  array 
Flickering  on  the  wind,  as  quivers 
Trailing  weed  in  running  rivers; 
And  others,  in  far  prospect  seen, 
Newly  loosed  on  this  terrene, 
Shot  in  piercing  swiftness  came. 
With  hair  a-stream  like  pale  and  goblin  flame. 
As  crystalline  ice  in  water, 
Lay  in  air  each  faint  daughter; 
Inseparate  (or  but  separate  dim) 
Circumfused  wind  from  wind-like  vest, 
Wind-like  vest  from  wind-like  limb. 
But  outward  from  each  lucid  breast. 
When  some  passion  left  its  haunt, 
Radiate  surge  of  colour  came, 


SISTER  SONGS  25 

Diffusing  blush-wise,  palpitant, 
Dying  all  the  filmy  frame. 
With  some  sweet  tenderness  they  would 
Turn  to  an  amber-clear  and  glossy  gold; 
Or  a  fine  sorrow,  lovely  to  behold. 
Would  sweep  them  as  the  sun  and  wind's  joined  flood 
Sweeps  a  greening-sapphire  sea; 
Or  they  would  glow  enamouredly 
Illustrious  sanguine,  like  a  grape  of  blood; 

Or  with  mantling  poetry 
Curd  to  the  tincture  which  the  opal  hath, 
Like  rainbows  thawing  in  a  moonbeam  bath. 
So  paled  they,  flushed  they,  swam  they,  sang  melodiously. 

Their  chanting,  soon  fading,  let  them,  too,  upraise 
For  homage  unto  Sylvia,  her  sweet,  feat  ways; 
Weave  with  suave  float  their  waved  way, 
And  colours  take  of  holiday. 
For  syllabling  to  Sylvia; 
And  all  the  birds  on  branches  lave  their  mouths  with  May, 
To  bear  with  me  this  burthen, 
For  singing  to  Sylvia. 

Then,  through  those  translucencies, 
As  grew  my  senses  clearer  clear, 
Did  I  see,  and  did  I  hear. 
How  under  an  elm's  canopy 
Wheeled  a  flight  of  Dryades 
Murmuring  measured  melody. 
Gyre  in  gyre  their  treading  was, 
Wheeling  with  an  adverse  flight, 
In  twi-circle  o'er  the  grass. 
These  to  left,  and  those  to  right; 


26  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

All  the  band 
Linked  by  each  other's  hand; 
Decked  in  raiment  stained  as 
The  blue-helmed  aconite. 
And  they  advance  with  flutter,  with  grace, 

To  the  dance, 
Moving  on  with  a  dainty  pace, 
As  blossoms  mince  it  on  river  swells. 
Over  their  heads  their  cymbals  shine, 
Round  each  ankle  gleams  a  twine 

Of  twinkling  bells — 
Tune  twirled  golden  from  their  cells. 
Every  step  was  a  tinkling  sound, 
As  they  glanced  in  their  dancing-ground. 
Clouds  in  cluster  with  such  a  sailing 
Float  o'er  the  light  of  the  wasting  moon, 
As  the  cloud  of  their  gliding  veiling 
Swung  in  the  sway  of  the  dancing-tune. 
There  was  the  clash  of  their  cymbals  clanging, 
Ringing  of  swinging  bells  clinging  their  feet; 
And  the  clang  on  wing  it  seemed  a-hanging, 
Hovering  round  their  dancing  so  fleet. — 
I  stirred,  I  rustled  more  than  meet; 
Whereat  they  broke  to  the  left  and  right, 
With  eddying  robes  like  aconite 

Blue  of  helm; 
And  I  beheld  to  the  foot  o'  the  elm. 

They  have  not  tripped  those  dances,  betrayed  to  my  gaze, 
To  glad  the  heart  of  Sylvia,  beholding  of  their  maze; 

Through  barky  walls  have  slid  away, 

And  tricked  them  in  their  holiday. 
For  other  than  for  Sylvia; 


SISTER  SONGS  27 

While  all  the  birds  on  branches  lave  their  mouths  with  May, 
And  bear  with  me  this  burthen, 
For  singing  to  Sylvia. 

Where  its  umbrage  was  enrooted, 

Sat,  white-suited, 
Sat,  green-amiced  and  bare-footed, 

Spring,  amid  her  minstrelsy; 
There  she  sat  amid  her  ladies, 

Where  the  shade  is 
Sheen  as  Enna  mead  ere  Hades' 

Gloom  fell  'thwart  Persephone. 
Dewy  buds  were  interstrown 
Through  her  tresses  hanging  down. 
And  her  feet 
Were  most  sweet, 
Tinged  like  sea-stars,  rosied  brown. 
A  throng  of  children  like  to  flowers  were  sown 
About  the  grass  beside,  or  clomb  her  knee: 
I  looked  who  were  that  favoured  company. 
And  one  there  stood 
Against  the  beamy  flood 
Of  sinking  day,  which,  pouring  its  abundance. 
Sublimed  the  illuminous  and  volute  redundance 
Of  locks  that,  half  dissolving,  floated  round  her  face; 
As  see  I  might 
Far  off  a  lily-cluster  poised  in  sun 
Dispread  its  gracile  curls  of  light. 
I  knew  what  chosen  child  was  there  in  place! 
I  knew  there  might  no  brows  be,  save  of  one, 
With  such  Hesperian  fulgence  compassed, 
Which  in  her  moving  seemed  to  wheel  about  her  head. 


28  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

O  Springes  little  children,  more  loud  your  lauds  upraise, 
For  this  is  even  Sylvia,  with  her  sweet,  feat  ways! 
Your  lovesome  labours  lay  away, 
And  prank  you  out  in  holiday, 
For  syllabling  to  Sylvia; 
And  all  you  birds  on  branches,  lave  your  mouths  with  May, 
To  bear  with  me  this  burthen. 
For  singing  to  Sylvia! 

Spring,  goddess,  is  it  thou,  desired  long? 

And  art  thou  girded  round  with  this  young  train? — 

If  ever  I  did  do  thee  ease  in  song. 

Now  of  thy  grace  let  me  one  meed  obtain, 

And  list  thou  to  one  plain. 

Oh,  keep  still  in  thy  train, 
After  the  years  when  others  therefrom  fade, 

This  tiny,  well-beloved  maid ! 
To  whom  the  gate  of  my  heart's  fortalice, 

With  all  which  in  it  is. 
And  the  shy  self  who  doth  therein  immew  him 
'Gainst  what  loud  leaguerers  battailously  woo  him, 

I,  bribed  traitor  to  him. 

Set  open  for  one  kiss. 

Then  suffer.  Spring,  thy  children,  that  lauds  they  should 

upraise 
To  Sylvia,  this  Sylvia,  her  sweet,  feat  ways; 
Their  lovely  labours  lay  away. 
And  trick  them  out  in  holiday. 
For  syllabling  to  Sylvia; 
And  that  all  birds  on  branches  lave  their  mouths  with  May, 
To  bear  with  me  this  burthen, 
For  singing  to  Sylvia. 


SISTER  SONGS  29 

A  kiss?  for  a  child's  kiss? 

Aye,  goddess,  even  for  this. 
Once,  bright  Sylviola,  in  days  not  far, 
Once— in  that  nightmare-time  which  still  doth  haunt 
My  dreams,  a  grim,  unbidden  visitant — 

Forlorn,  and  faint,  and  stark, 
I  had  endured  through  watches  of  the  dark 

The  abashless  inquisition  of  each  star, 
Yea,  was  the  outcast  mark 

Of  all  those  heavenly  passers'  scrutiny; 

Stood  bound  and  helplessly 
For  Time  to  shoot  his  barbed  minutes  at  me; 
Suffered  the  trampling  hoof  of  every  hour 

In  night's  slow- wheeled  car; 
Until  the  tardy  dawn  dragged  me  at  length 
From  under  those  dread  wheels;  and,  bled  of  strength, 
I  waited  the  inevitable  last. 

Then  there  came  past 
A  child;  like  thee,  a  spring-flower;  but  a  flower 
Fallen  from  the  budded  coronal  of  Spring, 
And  through  the  city-streets  blown  withering. 
She  passed, — O  brave,  sad,  lovingest,  tender  thingl 
And  of  her  own  scant  pittance  did  she  give, 

That  I  might  eat  and  live: 
Then  fled,  a  swift  and  trackless  fugitive. 

Therefore  I  kissed  in  thee 
The  heart  of  Childhood,  so  divine  for  me; 

And  her,  through  what  sore  ways, 

And  what  unchildish  days. 
Borne  from  me  now,  as  then,  a  trackless  fugitive. 

Therefore  I  kissed  in  thee 

Her,  child!  and  innocency. 
And  spring,  and  all  things  that  have  gone  from  me, 


j^^  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  l^OKMS 

And  that  shall  never  be; 
All  vanished  hopes,  and  all  most  hopeless  bliss, 

Came  with  thee  to  my  kiss. 
And  ah!  so  long  myself  had  strayed  afar 
From  child,  and  woman,  and  the  boon  earth's  green, 
And  all  wherewith  life's  face  is  fair  beseen; 

Journeying  its  journey  bare 
Five  suns,  except  of  the  all-kissing  sun 
Unkissed  of  one; 
Almost  I  had  forgot 
The  healing  harms. 
And  whitest  witchery,  a-lurk  in  that 
Authentic  cestus  of  two  girdling  arms: 
And  I  remembered  not 
The  subtle  sanctities  which  dart 
From  childish  lips'  unvalued  precious  brush, 
Nor  how  it  makes  the  sudden  lilies  push 
Between  the  loosening  fibres  of  the  heart. 
Then,  that  thy  little  kiss 
Should  be  to  me  all  this. 
Let  workaday  wisdom  blink  sage  lids  thereat; 
Which  towers  a  flight  three  hedgerows  high,  poor  bat! 

And  straightway  charts  me  out  the  empyreal  air. 
Its  chart  I  wing  not  by,  its  canon  of  worth 
Scorn  not,  nor  reck  though  mine  should  breed  it  mirth: 
And  howso  thou  and  I  may  be  disjoint, 
Yet  still  my  falcon  spirit  makes  her  point 

Over  the  covert  where 
Thou,  sweetest  quarry,  hast  put  in  from  her! 

(Soul,  hush  these  sad  numbers,  too  sad  to  upraise 
In  hymning  bright  Sylvia,  unlearn'd  in  such  ivaysl 
Our  mournful  moods  lay  we  away. 


SISTER  SONGS  31 

And  prank  our  thoughts  in  holiday, 

For  syllabling  to  Sylvia; 
When  all  the  birds  on  branches  lave  their  mouths  with  May . 
To  bear  with  us  this  burthen, 

For  singing  to  Sylvia!) 

Then  thus  Spring,  bounteous  lady,  made  reply: 
'O  lover  of  me  and  all  my  progeny, 

For  grace  to  you 
I  take  her  ever  to  my  retinue. 
Over  thy  form,  dear  child,  alas!  my  art 
Cannot  prevail;  but  mine  immortalizing 

Touch  I  lay  upon  thy  heart. 

Thy  soul's  fair  shape 
In  my  unfading  mantle's  green  I  drape, 
And  thy  white  mind  shall  rest  by  my  devising 

A  Gideon-fleece  amid  life's  dusty  drouth. 
If  Even  burst  yon  globed  yellow  grape 
(Which  is  the  sun  to  mortals'  sealed  sight) 

Against  her  stained  mouth; 

Or  if  white-handed  light 
Draw  thee  yet  dripping  from  the  quiet  pools, 

Still  lucencies  and  cools. 
Of  sleep,  which  all  night  mirror  constellate  dreams; 
Like  to  the  sign  which  led  the  Israelite, 

Thy  soul,  through  day  or  dark, 
A  visible  brightness  on  the  chosen  ark 

Of  thy  sweet  body  and  pure, 
Shall  it  assure. 
With  auspice  large  and  tutelary  gleams. 
Appointed  solemn  courts,  and  covenanted  streams.* 


32  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Cease,  Spring's  little  children,  now  cease  your  lauds  to  raise; 
That  dream  is  past,  and  Sylvia,  with  her  sweet,  feat  ways. 
Our  loved  labour,  laid  away, 
Is  smoothly  ended;  said  our  say, 
Our  syllabling  to  Sylvia. 
Make  sweet,  you  birds  on  branches!  make  sweet  your  mouths 
with  May! 

But  borne  is  this  burthen, 
Sung  unto  Sylvia. 


PART  THE  SECOND 

And  now,  thou  elder  nursling  of  the  nest; 
Ere  all  the  intertangled  west 
Be  one  magnificence 
Of  multitudinous  blossoms  that  o'errun 
The  flaming  brazen  bowl  o'  the  burnished  sun 

Which  they  do  flower  from, 
How  shall  I  'stablish  thy  memorial? 
Nay,  how  or  with  what  countenance  shall  I  come 
To  plead  in  my  defence 
For  loving  thee  at  all? 
I  who  can  scarcely  speak  my  fellows'  speech, 
Love  their  love,  or  mine  own  love  to  them,  teach; 
A  bastard  barred  from  their  inheritance, 

AVho  seem,  in  this  dim  shape's  uneasy  nook. 
Some  sun-flower's  spirit  which  by  luckless  chance 

Has  mournfully  its  tenement  mistook; 
"When  it  were  better  in  its  right  abode. 
Heartless  and  happy  lackeying  its  god. 
How  com'st  thou,  little  tender  thing  of  white, 
Whose  very  toiirh  fnll  scantlv  me  beseems, 


SISTER  SONGS  33 

How  com'st  thou  resting  on  my  vaporous  dreams, 
Kindling  a  wraith  there  of  earth's  vernal  green? 

Even  so  as  I  have  seen, 
In  night's  aerial  sea  with  no  wind  blust'rous, 
A  ribbed  tract  of  cloudy  malachite 

Curve  a  shored  crescent  wide; 
And  on  its  slope  marge  shelving  to  the  night 

The  stranded  moon  lay  quivering  like  a  lustrous 
Medusa  newly  w^ashed  up  from  the  tide, 
Lay  in  an  oozy  pool  of  its  own  deliquious  light. 
Yet  hear  how  my  excuses  may  prevail, 
Nor,  tender  white  orb,  be  thou  opposite! 
Life  and  life's  beauty  only  hold  their  revels 
In  the  abysmal  ocean's  luminous  levels. 
There,  like  the  phantasms  of  a  poet  pale, 

The  exquisite  marvels  sail: 
Clarified  silver;  greens  and  azures  frail 
As  if  the  colours  sighed  themselves  away, 
And  blent  in  supersubtile  interplay 

As  if  they  swooned  into  each  other's  arms; 
Repured  vermilion, 
Like  ear-tips  'gainst  the  sun; 
And  beings  that,  under  night's  swart  pinion, 
Make  every  wave  upon  the  harbour-bars 

A  beaten  yolk  of  stars. 
But  where  day's  glance  turns  baffled  from  the  deeps, 

Die  out  those  lovely  swarms; 
And  in  the  immense  profound  no  creature  glides  or  creeps. 

Love  and  love's  beauty  only  hold  their  revels 
In  life's  familiar,  penetrable  levels: 

What  of  its  ocean-floor? 

I  dwell  there  evermore. 


34  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

From  almost  earliest  youth 
I  raised  the  lids  o'  the  truth, 
And  forced  her  bend  on  me  her  shrinking  sight; 
Ever  I  knew  me  Beauty's  eremite, 
In  antre  of  this  lowly  body  set, 
Girt  with  a  thirsty  solitude  of  soul. 
Natheless  I  not  forget 
How  I  have,  even  as  the  anchorite, 

I  too,  imperishing  essences  that  console. 
Under  my  ruined  passions,  fallen  and  sere. 

The  wild  dreams  stir,  like  little  radiant  girls 
Whom  in  the  moulted  plumage  of  the  year 

Their  comrades  sweet  have  buried  to  the  curls. 
Yet,  though  their  dedicated  amorist, 
How  often  do  I  bid  my  visions  hist,, 

Deaf  to  them,  pleading  all  their  piteous  fills; 
^Vho  weep,  as  weep  the  maidens  of  the  mist 
Clinging  the  necks  of  the  unheeding  hills: 
And  their  tears  wash  them  lovelier  than  before, 
That  from  grief's  self  our  sad  delight  grows  more. 
Fair  are  the  soul's  uncrisped  calms,  indeed, 
En  diapered  with  many  a  spiritual  form 
Of  blosmy- tinctured  weed; 
But  scarce  itself  is  conscious  of  the  store 
Suckled  by  it,  and  only  after  storm 
Casts  up  its  loosened  thoughts  upon  the  shore. 
To  this  end  my  deeps  are  stirred; 
And  I  deem  well  why  life  unshared 
Was  ordained  me  of  yore. 
In  pairing-time,  we  know,  the  bird 
Kindles  to  its  deepmost  splendour, 
And  the  tender 
Voice  is  tenderest  in  its  throat: 


SISTER  SONGS  35 

Were  its  love,  for  ever  nigh  it, 
Never  by  it, 
It  might  keep  a  vernal  note. 
The  crocean  and  amethystine 
In  their  pristine 
Lustre  linger  on  its  coat. 
Therefore  must  my  song-bower  lone  be, 
That  my  tone  be 
Fresh  with  dewy  pain  alway; 
She,  who  scorns  my  dearest  care  ta'en. 
An  uncertain 
Shadow  of  the  sprite  of  May. 
And  is  my  song  sweet,  as  they  say? 
*Tis  sweet  for  one  whose  voice  has  no  reply. 

Save  silence's  sad  cry: 
And  are  its  plumes  a  burning  bright  array? 
They  burn  for  an  unincamated  eye. 
A  bubble,  charioteered  by  the  inward  breath 
Which,  ardorous  for  its  own  invisible  lure, 
Urges  me  glittering  to  aerial  death, 

I  am  rapt  towards  that  bodiless  paramour; 
Blindly  the  uncomprehended  tyranny 
Obeying  of  my  heart's  impetuous  might. 
The  earth  and  all  its  planetary  kin, 
Starry  buds  tangled  in  the  whirling  hair 
That  flames  round  the  Phoebean  wassailer. 

Speed  no  more  ignorant,  more  predestined  flight, 
Than  I,  her  viewless  tresses  netted  in. 
As  some  most  beautiful  one,  with  lovely  taunting, 
Her  eyes  of  guileless  guile  o'ercanopies, 

Does  her  hid  visage  bow, 
And  miserly  your  covetous  gaze  allow, 
By  inchmeal,  coy  degrees. 


36  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Saying — 'Can  you  see  me  now?' 
Yet  from  the  mouth's  reflex  you  guess  the  wanting 

Smile  of  the  coming  eyes 
In  all  their  upturned  grievous  witcheries, 

Before  that  sunbreak  rise; 
And  each  still  hidden  feature  view  within 
Your  mind,  as  eager  scrutinies  detail 
The  moon's  young  rondure  through  the  shamefast  veil 

Drawn  to  her  gleaming  chin; 
After  this  wise. 
From  the  enticing  smile  of  earth  and  skies 
I  dream  my  unknown  Fair's  refused  gaze; 
And  guessingly  her  love's  close  traits  devise, 

Which  she  with  subtile  coquetries 
Through  little  human  glimpses  slow  displays, 

Cozening  my  mateless  days 

By  sick,  intolerable  delays. 
And  so  I  keep  mine  uncompanioned  ways; 
And  so  my  touch,  to  golden  poesies 
Turning  love's  bread,  is  bought  at  hunger's  price. 
So, — in  the  inextinguishable  wars 
Which  roll  song's  Orient  on  the  sullen  night 
Whose  ragged  banners  in  their  own  despite 
Take  on  the  tinges  of  the  hated  light,— 
So  Sultan  Phoebus  has  his  Janizars. 
But  if  mine  unappeased  cicatrices 

Might  get  them  lawful  ease; 
Were  any  gentle  passion  hallowed  me, 

Who  must  none  other  breath  of  passion  feel 
Save  such  as  winnows  to  the  fled.Gjpd  heel 
The  tremulous  Paradisal  plumages; 

The  conscious  sacramental  trees 
Which  ever  be 


SISTER  SONGS  37 

Shaken  celestially, 
Consentient  with  enamoured  wings,  might  know  my  love  for 

thee. 
Yet  is  there  more,  whereat  none  guesseth,  love! 

Upon  the  ending  of  my  deadly  night 
(Whereof  thou  hast  not  the  surmise,  and  slight 
Is  all  that  any  mortal  knows  thereof), 

Thou  wert  to  me  that  earnest  of  day's  light, 
When,  like  the  back  of  a  gold-mailed  saurian 
Heaving  its  slow  length  from  Nilotic  slime, 
The  first  long  gleaming  fissure  runs  Aurorian 
Athwart  the  yet  dun  firmament  of  prime. 
Stretched  on  the  margin  of  the  cruel  sea 
Whence  they  had  rescued  me. 
With  faint  and  painful  pulses  was  I  lying; 
Not  yet  discerning  well 
If  I  had  'scaped,  or  were  an  icicle. 
Whose  thawing  is  its  dying. 
Like  one  who  sweats  before  a  despot's  gate. 
Summoned  by  some  presaging  scroll  of  fate, 
And  knows  not  whether  kiss  or  dagger  wait; 
And  all  so  sickened  is  his  countenance. 
The  courtiers  buzz,  'Lo,  doomed!'  and  look  at  him 
askance: — 

At  Fate's  dread  portal  then 
Even  so  stood  I,  I  ken. 
Even  so  stood  I,  between  a  joy  and  fear, 
And  said  to  mine  own  heart,  'Now  if  the  end  be  here!' 

They  say.  Earth's  beauty  seems  completes! 

To  them  that  on  their  death-beds  rest; 
Gentle  lady!  she  smiles  sweetest 

Just  ere  she  clasps  us  to  her  breast. 


38  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

And  I, — now  my  Earth's  countenance  grew  bright, 
Did  she  but  smile  me  towards  that  nuptial-night? 
But,  whileas  on  such  dubious  bed  I  lay, 
One  unforgotten  day, 
As  a  sick  child  waking  sees 

Wide-eyed  daisies 
Gazing  on  it  from  its  hand, 
Slipped  there  for  its  dear  amazes; 
So  between  thy  father's  knees 
I  saw  thee  stand, 
And  through  my  hazes 
Of  pain  and  fear  thine  eyes'  young  wonder  shone. 
Then,  as  flies  scatter  from  a  carrion. 

Or  rooks  in  spreading  gyres  like  broken  smoke 
Wheel,  when  some  sound  their  quietude  has  broke, 
Fled,  at  thy  countenance,  all  that  doubting  spawn: 

The  heart  which  I  had  questioned  spoke, 
A  cry  impetuous  from  its  depth  was  drawn, — 
^I  take  the  omen  of  this  face  of  dawn!' 
And  with  the  omen  to  my  heart  cam'st  thou. 

Even  with  a  spray  of  tears 
That  one  light  draft  was  fixed  there  for  the  years. 

And  now? — 
The  hours  I  tread  ooze  memories  of  thee.  Sweet, 

Beneath  my  casual  feet. 

With  rainfall  as  the  lea, 

The  day  is  drenched  with  thee; 
In  little  exquisite  surprises 
Bubbling  deliciousness  of  thee  arises 

From  sudden  places, 

Under  the  common  traces 
Of  my  most  lethargied  and  customed  paces. 


SISTER  SONGS  39 

As  an  Arab  journeyetii 

Through  a  sand  of  Ayaman, 

Lean  Thirst,  lolHng  its  cracked  tongue, 

Lagging  by  his  side  along; 

And  a  rusty-winged  Death 

Grating  its  low  flight  before, 

Casting  ribbed  shadows  o'er 

The  blank  desert,  blank  and  tan: 
He  lifts  by  hap  toward  where  the  morning's  roots  are 
His  weary  stare, — 
Sees,  although  they  plashless  mutes  are, 

Set  in  a  silver  air 
Fountains  of  gelid  shoots  are. 

Making  the  daylight  fairest  fair; 
Sees  the  palm  and  tamarind 
Tangle  the  tresses  of  a  phantom  wind; — 
A  sight  like  innocence  when  one  has  sinned! 
A  green  and  maiden  freshness  smiling  there, 

While  with  unblinking  glare 
The  tawny-hided  desert  crouches  watching  her. 

Tis  a  vision: 
Yet  the  greeneries  Elysian 
He  has  known  in  tracts  afar; 
Thus  the  enamouring  fountains  flow, 
Those  the  very  palms  that  grow, 
By,  rare-gummed  Sava,  or  Herbalimar. — 
Such  a  watered  dream  has  tarried 
Trembling  on  my  desert  arid; 
Even  so 
Its  lovely  gleamings 

Seemings  show 
Of  things  not  seemings; 


40  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

And  I  gaze, 
Knowing  that,  beyond  my  ways, 

Verily 
All  these  are,  for  these  are  She. 

Eve  no  gentlier  lays  her  cooling  cheek 
On  the  burning  brow  of  the  sick  earth, 
Sick  with  death,  and  sick  with  birth. 
Aeon  to  aeon,  in  secular  fever  twirled. 
Than  thy  shadow  soothes  this  weak 
And  distempered  being  of  mine. 
In  all  I  work,  my  hand  includeth  thine; 
Thou  rushest  down  in  every  stream 
Whose  passion  frets  my  spirit's  deepening  gorge; 
Unhood'st  mine  eyas-heart,  and  fliest  my  dream; 

Thou  swing'st  the  hammers  of  my  forge; 
As  the  innocent  moon,  that  nothing  does  but  shine. 
Moves  all  the  labouring  surges  of  the  world. 

Pierce  where  thou  wilt  the  springing  thought  in  me, 
And  there  thy  pictured  countenance  lies  enfurled, 
As  in  the  cut  fern  lies  the  imaged  tree. 

This  poor  song  that  sings  of  thee, 
This  fragile  song,  is  but  a  curled 

Shell  outgathered  from  thy  sea. 
And  murmurous  still  of  its  nativity. 
Princess  of  Smiles, 
Sorceress  of  most  unlawful-lawful  wiles, 
Cunning  pit  for  gazers'  senses, 
Overstrewn  with  innocences! 
Purities  gleam  white  like  statues 
In  the  fair  lakes  of  thine  eyes. 
And  I  watch  the  sparkles  that  use 
There  to  rise, 


SISTER  SONGS  4S 

Knowing  these 
Are  bubbles  from  the  calyces 
Of  the  lovely  thoughts  that  breathe 
Paving,  like  water-flowers,  thy  spirit's  floor  beneath. 

O  thou  most  dear! 
Who  art  thy  sex's  complex  harmony 

God-set  more  facilely; 

To  thee  may  love  draw  near 

Without  one  blame  or  fear, 
Unchidden  save  by  his  humility: 
Thou  Perseus'  Shield  wherein  I  view  secure 
The  mirrored  Woman's  fateful-fair  allure! 
Whom  Heaven  still  leaves  a  twofold  dignity, 
As  girlhood  gentle,  and  as  boyhood  free; 
With  whom  no  most  diaphanous  webs  enwind 
The  bared  limbs  of  the  rebukeless  mind. 
Wild  Dryad,  all  unconscious  of  thy  tree. 

With  which  indissolubly 
The  tyrannous  time  shall  one  day  make  thee  whole; 
Whose  frank  arms  pass  unf retted  through  its  bole; 

Who  wear'st  thy  femineity 
Light  as  entrailed  blossoms,  that  shalt  find 
It  erelong  silver  shackles  unto  thee: 
Thou  whose  young  sex  is  yet  but  in  thy  soul; — 

As  hoarded  in  the  vine 
Hang  the  gold  skins  of  undelirious  wine, 
As  air  sleeps,  till  it  toss  its  limbs  in  breeze; — 
In  whom  the  mystery  which  lures  and  sunders, 
Grapples  and  thrusts  apart,  endears,  estranges, 
— The  dragon  to  its  own  Hesperides — 

Is  gated  under  slow-revolving  changes, 
Manifold  doors  of  heavy-hinged  years: — 


42  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

So  once,  ere  Heaven's  eyes  were  filled  with  wonders 
To  see  Laughter  rise  from  Tears, 
Lay  in  beauty  not  yet  mighty, 

Conched  in  translucencies, 
The  antenatal  Aphrodite, 
Caved  magically  under  magic  seas; 
Caved  dreamlessly  beneath  the  dreamful  seas. 

'Whose  sex  is  in  thy  soul!' 
What  think  we  of  thy  soul? 

Which  has  no  parts,  and  cannot  grow, 

Unfurled  not  from  an  embryo; 
Born  of  full  stature,  lineal  to  control; 
And  yet  a  pigmy's  yoke  must  undergo: 
Yet  must  keep  pace  and  tarry,  patient,  kind, 
With  its  unwilling  scholar,  the  dull,  tardy  mind; 
Must  be  obsequious  to  the  body's  powers, 
Whose  low  hands  mete  its  paths,  set  ope  and  close  its  ways; 

Must  do  obeisance  to  the  days, 
And  wait  the  little  pleasure  of  the  hours; 

Yea,  ripe  for  kingship,  yet  must  be 
Captive  in  statuted  minority! 
So  is  all  power  fulfilled,  as  soul  in  thee. 
So  still  the  ruler  by  the  ruled  takes  rule, 
And  wisdom  weaves  itself  i'  the  loom  o'  the  fool. 
The  splendent  sun  no  splendour  can  display 
Till  on  gross  things  he  dash  his  broken  ray. 
From  cloud  and  tree  and  flower  re-tossed  in  prismy  spray. 
Did  not  obstruction's  vessel  hem  it  in, 
Force  were  not  force,  would  spill  itself  in  vain; 
We  know  the  Titan  by  his  champed  chain. 
Stay  is  heat's  cradle,  it  is  rocked  therein. 
And  by  check's  hand  is  burnished  into  light; 


SISTER  SUiNOc)  45 

If  hate  were  none,  would  love  burn  lowlier  bright? 
God's  Fair  were  guessed  scarce  but  for  opposite  sin; 
Yea,  and  His  Mercy,  I  do  think  it  well, 
Is  flashed  back  from  the  brazen  gates  of  Hell. 

The  heavens  decree 
All  power  fulfil  itself  as  soul  in  thee. 
For  supreme  Spirit  subject  was  to  clay. 

And  Law  from  its  own  servants  learned  a  law, 
And  Light  besought  a  lamp  unto  its  way, 
And  Awe  was  reined  in  awe, 
At  one  small  house  of  Nazareth; 
And  Golgotha 
Saw  Breath  to  breathlessness  resign  its  breath, 
And  Life  do  homage  for  its  crown  to  death. 

So  is  all  power,  as  soul  in  thee,  increased! 
But,  knowing  this,  in  knowledge's  despite 
I  fret  against  the  law  severe  that  stains 

Thy  spirit  with  eclipse; 
When — as  a  nymph's  carven  head  sweet  water  drips, 
For  others  oozing  so  the  cool  delight 
Which  cannot  steep  her  stiffened  mouth  of  stone — 
Thy  nescient  lips  repeat  maternal  strains. 

Memnonian  lips! 
Smitten  with  singing  from  thy  mother's  East, 
And  murmurous  with  music  not  their  own: 
Nay,  the  lips  flexile,  while  the  mind  alone 
A  passionless  statue  stands. 
Oh,  pardon,  innocent  one! 
Pardon  at  thine  unconscious  hands! 
'Murmurous  with  music  not  their  own,*  I  say? 
And  in  that  saying  how  do  I  missay. 
When  from  the  common  sands 


44  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Of  poorest  common  speech  of  common  day 
Thine  accents  sift  the  golden  musics  out! 

And  ah,  we  poets,  I  misdoubt, 
Are  little  more  than  thou! 
We  speak  a  lesson  taught  we  know  not  how, 

And  what  it  is  that  from  us  flows 
The  hearer  better  than  the  utterer  knows. 

Thou  canst  foreshape  thy  word; 
The  poet  is  not  lord 

Of  the  next  syllable  may  come 

With  the  returning  pendulum; 

And  what  he  plans  to-day  in  song, 
To-morrow  sings  it  in  another  tongue. 

Where  the  last  leaf  fell  from  his  bough, 

He  knows  not  if  a  leaf  shall  grow; 

Where  he  sows  he  doth  not  reap, 

He  reapeth  where  h    did  not  sow: 

He  sleeps,  and  dreams  forsake  his  sleep 

To  meet  him  on  his  waking  way. 
Vision  will  mate  him  not  by  law  and  vow: 

Disguised  in  life's  most  hodden-grey, 
By  the  most  beaten  road  of  everyday 
She  waits  him,  unsuspected  and  unknown. 

The  hardest  pang  whereon 
He  lays  his  mutinous  head  may  be  a  Jacob's  stone. 
In  the  most  iron  crag  his  foot  can  tread 
A  Dream  may  strew  her  bed, 

And  suddenly  his  limbs  entwine, 
And  draw  him  down  through  rock  as  sea-nymphs  might 

through  brine. 
But,  unlike  those  feigned  temptress-ladies  who 
In  guerdon  of  a  night  the  lover  slew. 


SISTER  SONGS  45 

When  the  embrace  has  failed,  the  rapture  fled, 
Not  he,  not  he,  the  wild  sweet  witch  is  dead! 

And  though  he  cherisheth 
The  babe  most  strangely  born  from  out  her  death, 
Some  tender  trick  of  her  it  hath,  maybe, — 
It  is  not  she! 

Yet,  even  as  the  air  is  rumorous  of  fray 

Before  the  first  shafts  of  the  sun's  onslaught 

From  gloom's  black  harness  splinter, 

And  Summer  move  on  Winter 
With  the  trumpet  of  the  March,  and  the  pennon  of  the 
May; 

As  gesture  outstrips  thought; 
So  haply,  toyer  with  ethereal  strings. 
Are  thy  blind  repetitions  of  high  things 
The  murmurous  gnats  whose  aimless  hoverings 

Reveal  song's  summer  in  the  air; 
The  outstretched  hand,  which  cannot  thought  declare, 

Yet  is  thought's  harbinger. 
These  strains  the  way  for  thine  own  strains  prepare; 
We  feel  the  music  moist  upon  this  breeze, 
And  hope  the  congregating  poesies. 

Sundered  yet  by  thee  from  us 

Wait,  with  wild  eyes  luminous, 
All  thy  winged  things  that  are  to  be; 
They  flit  against  thee.  Gate  of  Ivory! 
They  clamour  on  the  portress  Destiny, — 
'Set  her  wide,  so  we  may  issue  through. 
Our  vans  are  quick  for  that  they  have  to  do ! ' 

Suffer  still  your  young  desire; 
Your  plumes  but  bicker  at  the  tips  with  fire; 
Tarry  their  kindling — they  will  beat  the  higher. 


46  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

And  thou,  bright  girl,  not  long  shalt  thou  repeat 
Idly  the  music  from  thy  mother  caught; 

Not  vainly  has  she  wrought, 
Not  vainly  from  the  cloudv/ard-jetting  turret 
Of  her  aerial  mind  for  thy  weak  feet 
Let  down  the  silken  ladder  of  her  thought. 
She  bare  thee  with  a  double  pain, 

Of  the  body  and  the  spirit; 
Thou  thy  fleshly  weeds  hast  ta'en, 
Thy  diviner  weeds  inherit! 
The  precious  streams  which  through   thy  young  lips  roll 
Shall  leave  their  lovely  delta  in  thy  soul: 
Where  sprites  of  so  essential  kind 

Set  their  paces. 
Surely  they  shall  leave  behind 

The  green  traces 
Of  their  sportance  in  the  mind; 
And  thou  shalt,  ere  we  well  may  know  it, 
Turn  that  daintiness,  a  poet, — 

Elfin-ring 
Where  sweet  fancies  foot  and  sing. 
So  it  may  be,  so  it  shall  be, — 
Oh,  take  the  prophecy  from  me! 
What  if  the  old  fastidious  sculptor.  Time, 
This  crescent  marvel  of  his  hands 
Carveth  all  too  painfully, 
And  I  who  prophesy  shall  never  see? 
What  if  the  niche  of  its  predestined  rhyme, 
Its  aching  niche,  too  long  expectant  stands? 
Yet  shall  he  after  sore  delays 
On  some  exultant  day  of  days 
The  white  enshrouding  childhood  raise 
From  thy  fair  spirit,  finished  for  our  gaze; 


SISTER  SONGS  47 

While  we  (but  'mongst  that  happy  'we 
The  prophet  cannot  be!) — 
While  we  behold  with  no  astonishments, 
With  that  serene  fulfilment  of  delight 
Wherewith  we  view  the  sight 
When  the  stars  pitch  the  golden  tents 
Of  their  high  campment  on  the  plains  of  night. 
Why  should  amazement  be  our  satellite? 

What  wonder  in  such  things? 
If  angels  have  hereditary  wings, 
If  not  by  Salic  law  is  handed  down 

The  poet's  crown, 
To  thee,  bom  in  the  purple  of  the  throne, 
The  laurel  must  belong: 
Thou,  in  thy  mother's  right 
Descendant  of  Castalian-chrismed  kings — 

0  Princess  of  the  Blood  of  Song! 

Peace!   Too  impetuously  have  I  been  winging 
Toward  vaporous  heights  which  beckon  and  beguile, 

1  sink  back,  saddened  to  my  inmost  mind; 
Even  as  I  list  a-dream  that  mother  singing 

The  poesy  of  sweet  tone,  and  sadden  while 
Her  voice  is  cast  in  troubled  wake  behind 
The  keel  of  her  keen  spirit.    Thou  art  enshrined 
In  a  too  primal  innocence  for  this  eye — 
Intent  on  such  imtempered  radiancy — 
Not  to  be  pained;  my  clay  can  scarce  endure 
Ungrieved  the  effluence  near  of  essences  so  pure. 
Therefore,  little  tender  maiden. 
Never  be  thou  overshaden 
With  a  mind  whose  canopy 
Would  shut  out  the  sky  from  thee; 


46  FRANCib  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

"Whose  tangled  branches  intercept  Heaven's  light: 

I  will  not  feed  my  unpastured  heart 

On  thee,  green  pleasaunce  as  thou  art, 
To  lessen  by  one  flower  thy  happy  daisies  white. 
The  water-rat  is  earth-hued  like  the  runlet 

Whereon  he  swims;  and  how  in  me  should  lurk 
Thoughts  apt  to  neighbour  thine,  thou  creature  sunlit? 

If  through  long  fret  and  irk 
Thine  eyes  within  their  browed  recesses  were 
Worn  caves  where  thought  lay  couchant  in  its  lair; 
Wert  thou  a  spark  among  dank  leaves,  ah  ruth! 
With  age  in  all  thy  veins,  while  all  thy  heart  was  youth; 

Our  contact  might  run  smooth. 
But  life's  Eoan  dews  still  moist  thy  ringed  hair; 

Dian's  chill  finger-tips 
Thaw  if  at  night  they  happen  on  thy  lips; 
The  flying  fringes  of  the  sun's  cloak  frush 
The  fragile  leaves  which  on  those  warm  lips  blush; 

And  joy  only  lurks  retired 

In  the  dim  gloaming  of  thine  irid. 
Then  since  my  love  drags  this  poor  shadow,  me, 
And  one  without  the  other  may  not  be, 
From  both  I  guard  thee  free. 

It  still  is  much,  yes,  it  is  much, 
Only — my  dream! — to  love  my  love  of  thee; 

And  it  is  much,  yes,  it  is  much, 
In  hands  which  thou  hast  touched  to  feel  thy  touch, 
In  voices  which  have  mingled  with  thine  owti 

To  hear  a  double  tone. 
As  anguish,  for  supreme  expression  prest, 

Borrows  its  saddest  tongue  from  jest, 

Thou  h^st  of  absence  so  create 

A  presence  more  importunate; 


SISTER  SONGS  49 

And  tbv  voice  pleads  its  sweetest  ^uit 

vVnen  it  is  mute. 
I  thank  the  once  accursed  star 
Which  did  me  teach 
To  make  of  Silence  my  familiar, 
WTio  hath  the  rich  reversion  of  thy  speech, 
Since  the  most  charming  sounds  thy  thoughts  can  wear, 
Cast  off,  fall  to  that  pale  attendant's  share; 

And  thank  the  gift  which  made  my  mind 
A  shadow-world,  wherethrough  the  shadows  wind 
Of  all  the  loved  and  lovely  of  my  kind. 

Like  a  maiden  Saxon,  folden, 

As  she  flits,  in  moon-drenched  mist; 
WTiose  curls  streaming  flaxen-golden. 

By  the  misted  moonbeams  kist, 
Dispread  their  filmy  floating  silk 

Like  honey  steeped  in  milk: 
So,  vague  goidenness  remote. 
Through  my  thoughts  I  watch  thee  float. 
When  the  snake  summer  casts  her  blazoned  skin 
We  find  it  at  the  turn  of  autumn's  path, 
And  think  it  summer  that  rewinded  hath, 

Joying  therein; 
And  this  enamouring  slough  of  thee,  thine  elf, 

I  take  it  for  thyself; 
Content.  Content?  Yea,  title  it  content. 
The  very  loves  that  belt  thee  must  prevent 
My  love,  I  know,  with  their  legitimacy: 
As  the  metallic  vapours,  that  are  swept 
Athwart  the  sun,  in  his  light  intercept 

The  very  hues 
Which  their  con.lagrant  elements  effuse. 


50  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'^  POliMS 

But,  my  love,  my  heart,  my  fair, 
That  only  I  should  see  thee  rare. 
Or  tent  to  the  hid  core  thy  rarity, — 

This  were  a  mournfulness  more  piercing  far 
Than  that  those  other  loves  my  own  must  bat, 
Or  thine  for  others  leave  thee  none  for  me. 

But  on  a  day  whereof  I  think. 
One  shall  dip  his  hand  to  drink 
In  that  still  water  of  thy  soul, 
And  its  imaged  tremors  race 
Over  thy  joy-troubled  face. 
As  the  intervolved  reflections  roll 
From  a  shaken  fountain's  brink, 
With  swift  light  wrinkling  its  alcove. 
From  the  hovering  wing  of  Love 
The  warm  stain  shall  flit  roseal  on  thy  cheek. 

Then,  sweet  blushet!  whenas  he. 
The  destined  paramount  of  thy  universe. 

Who  has  no  worlds  to  sigh  for,  ruling  thee, 
Ascends  his  vermeil  throne  of  empery. 
One  grace  alone  I  seek. 
Oh!  may  this  treasure-galleon  of  my  verse, 
Fraught  with  its  golden  passion,  oared  with  cadent  rl;;/me. 
Set  with  a  towering  press  of  fantasies. 
Drop  safely  down  the  time. 
Leaving  mine  isled  self  behind  it  far 
Soon  to  be  sunken  in  the  abysm  cf  seas 
{As  down  the  years  the  splendour  voyages 

From  some  long  ruined  and  night-submei'ged  star). 
And  in  thy  subject  sovereign's  havening  heart 
Anchor  the  freightage  of  its  virgin  ore; 
.Add'ng  its  wasteful  mce 

i 


SISTER  SONGS  51 

To  his  own  overflowing  treasury. 

So  through  his  river  mine  shall  reach  thy  sea, 

Bearing  its  confluent  part; 

In  his  pulse  mine  shall  thrill; 
And  the  quick  heart  shall  quicken  from  the  heart  that's 
still. 

Ah,  help,  my  Daemon,  that  hast  served  me  well! 
Not  at  this  last,  oh,  do  not  me  disgrace! 
I  faint,  I  sicken,  darkens  all  my  sight. 
As,  poised  upon  this  unprevisioned  height, 
I  lift  into  its  place 
The  utmost  aery  traceried  pinnacle. 
So;  it  is  builded,  the  high  tenement, 

— God  grant! — to  mine  intent: 
Most  like  a  palace  of  the  Occident, 

Up-thrusting,  toppling  maze  on  maze. 
Its  mounded  blaze, 
And  washed  by  the  sunset's  rosy  waves. 
Whose    sea    drinks    rarer   hue    from    those    rare    walls    it 
laves. 

Yet  wail,  my  spirits,  wail! 
So  few  therein  to  enter  shall  prevail. 
Scarce  fewer  could  win  way,  if  their  desire 
A  dragon  baulked,  with  involuted  spire. 
And  writhen  snout  spattered  with  yeasty  fire. 
For  at  the  elfin  portal  hangs  a  horn 

Which  none  can  wind  aright 
Save  the  appointed  knight 
Whose  lids  the  fay-wings  brushed  when  he  was  bom. 

All  others  stray  forlorn, 
Or  glimpsing,  through  the  blazoned  windows  scrolled, 
Receding  labyrinths  lessening  tortuouslv 


52  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

In  half  obscurity; 
With  mystic  images,   inhuman,  cold, 
That  flameless  torches  hold. 
But  who  can  wind  that  horn  of  migh. 
(The  horn  of  dead  Heliades)  aright, — 

Straight 
Open  for  him  shall  roll  the  conscious  gate; 
And  light  leap  up  from  all  the  torches  there, 
And  life  leap  up  in  every  torchbearer, 
And  the  stone  faces  kindle  in  the  glow, 
And  into  the  blank  eyes  the  irids  grow, 
And  through  the  dawning  irids  ambushed  meanings  show. 

Illumined  this  wise  on, 
He  threads  securely  the  far  intricacies. 

With  brede  from  Heaven's  v/rought  vesture  overstrewn 
Swift  Tellus'  purfled  tunic,  girt  upon 
With  the  blown  chlamys  of  her  fluttering  seas; 

And  the  freaked  kirtle  of  the  pearled  moon: 
Until  he  gain  the  structure's  core,  where  stands — 

A  toil  of  magic  hands — 
The  unbodied  spirit  of  the  sorcerer. 
Most  strangely  rare, 
As  is  a  vision  remembered  in  the  noon; 
Unbodied,  yet  to  mortal  seeing  clear,   ' 
Like  sighs  exhaled  in  eager  atmosphere. 
From  human  haps  and  mutabilities 
It  rests  exempt,  beneath  the  edifice 

To  which  itself  gave  rise; 
Sustaining  centre  to  the  bubble  of  stone 
Which,  breathed  from  it,  exists  by  it  alone. 
Yea,  ere  Saturnian  earth  her  child  consumes. 
And  I  lie  down  with  outworn  ossuaries, 
Ere  death's  grim  tongue  anticipates  the  tomb's 


SISTER  SONGS  S3 

Siste  viator,  in  this  storied  urn 
My  living  heart  is  laid  to  throb  and  bum, 
Till  end  be  ended,  and  till  ceasing  cease. 

And  thou  by  whom  this  strain  hath  parentage; 

Wantoner  between  the  yet  untreacherous  claws 
Of  newly- whelped  existence!   ere  he  pause, 
What  gift  to  thee  can  yield  the  archimage? 
For  coming  seasons'  frets 
What  aids,  w^hat  amulets, 
What  softenings,  or  what  brightenings? 
As  Thunder  writhes  the  lash  of  his  long  lightnings 
About  the  growling  heads  of  the  brute  main 
Foaming  at  mouth,  until  it  wallow  again 
In  the  scooped  oozes  of  its  bed  of  pain ; 
So  all  the  gnashing  jaws,  the  leaping  heads 
Of  hungry  menaces,  and  of  ravening  dreads, 

Of  pangs 
Twitch-lipped,  with  quivering  nostrils  and  immitigate  fangs, 
I  scourge  beneath  the  torment  of  my  charms 
That  their  repentless  nature  fear  to  w^ork  thee  harms. 
And  as  yon  Apollonian  harp-player, 

Yon  w^andering  psalterist  of  the  sky. 
With  flickering  strings  which  scatter  melody. 
The  silver-stoled  damsels  of  the  sea, 

Or  lake,  or  fount,  or  stream. 
Enchants  from  their  ancestral  heaven  of  waters 
To  Naiad  it  through  the  unfrothing  air; 

My  song  enchants  so  out  of  undulous  dream 
The  glimmering  shapes  of  its  dim-tressed  daughters, 
And  missions  each  to  be  thy  minister, 

Saying:  'O  ye. 
The  organ-stops  of  being's  harmony; 


54  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

The  blushes  on  existence's  pale  face, 

Lending  it  sudden  grace; 
Without  whom  we  should  but  guess  Heaven's  worth 
By  blank  negations  of  this  sordid  earth 

(So  haply  to  the  blind  may  light 
Be  but  gloom's  undetermined  opposite) ; 
Ye  who  are  thus  as  the  refracting  air 
Whereby  we  see  Heaven's  sun  before  it  rise 
Above  the  dull  line  of  our  mortal  skies; 
As  breathing  on  the  strained  ear  that  sighs 
From  comrades  viewless  unto  strained  eyes, 
Soothing  our  terrors  in  the  lampless  night; 
Ye  who  can  make  this  v/orld,  where  all  is  deeming, 
What  world  ye  list,  being  arbiters  of  seeming; 
Attend  upon  her  ways,  benignant  powers! 
Unroll  ye  life  a  carpet  for  her  feet, 
And  cast  ye  down  before  them  blossomy  hours. 
Until  her  going  shall  be  clogged  with  sweet! 
All  dear  emotions  whose  new-bathed  hair. 
Still  streaming  from  the  soul,  in  love's  warm  air 
Smokes  with  a  mist  of  tender  fantasies; 

All  these, 
And  all  the  heart's  wild  growths  which,  swiftly  bright, 
Spring  up  the  crimson  agarics  of  a  night. 
No  pain  in  withering,  yet  a  joy  arisen; 
And  all  thin  shapes  more  exquisitely  rare. 

More  subtly  fair, 
Than  these  weak  ministering  words  have  spell  to  prison 
Within  the  magic  circle  of  this  rhyme; 
And  all  the  fays  who  in  our  creedless  clime 

Have  sadly  ceased, 
Bearing  to  other  children  childhood's  proper  feast; 
Whose  robes  are  fluent  crystal,  crocus-hued, 


SISTER  SONGS  55 

Whose  wings  are  wind  a-fire,  whose  mantles  wrought 
From  spray  that  falling  rainbows  shake  to  air; 
These,  ye  familiars  to  my  wizard  thought, 
Make  things  of  journal  custom  unto  her; 

With  lucent  feet  imbrued, 
If  young  Day  tread,  a  glorious  vintager, 

The  wine-press  of  the  purple-foamed  east; 

Or  round  the  nodding  sun,  flush-faced  and  sunken, 
His  wild  Bacchantes  drunken 

Reel,  with  rent  woofs  a-flaunt,  their  westering  rout.' 

— But  lo!  at  length  the  day  is  lingered  out, 
At  length  my  Ariel  lays  his  viol  by; 
We  sing  no  more  to  thee,  child,  he  and  I; 
The  day  is  lingered  out: 
In  slow  wreaths  folden 
Around  yon  censer,  sphered,  golden, 

Vague  Vesper's  fumes  aspire; 
And,  glimmering  to  eclipse, 
The  long  laburnum  drips 
Its  honey  ef  wild  flame,  its  jocund  spilth  of  fire. 

Now  pass  your  ways,  fair  bird,  and  pass  your  ways, 
If  you  will; 
I  have  you  through  the  days! 
And  flit  or  hold  you  still. 
And  perch  you  where  you  list 
On  what  wrist, — 
You  are  mine  through  the  times! 
I  have  caught  you  fast  for  ever  in  a  tangle  of  sweet  rhymes. 
And  in  your  young  maiden  morn 
You  may  scorn, 
But  you  must  be 


S6  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Bound  and  sociate  to  me; 
With  this  thread  from  out  the  tomb  my  dead  hand  shall 
tether  thee  I 


Go,  Sister-songs,  to  that  sweet  Sister-pair 
For  whom  I  have  your  frail  limbs  fashioned, 

And  framed  feateously; — 
For  whom  I  have  your  frail  limbs  fashioned 
With  how  great  shamefastness  and  how  great  dread, 
Knowing  you  frail,  but  not  if  you  be  fair, 

Though  framed  feateously; 

Go  unto  them  from  me. 
Go  from  my  shadow  to  their  sunshine  sight. 

Made  for  all  sights'  delight; 
Go  like  twin  swans  that  oar  the  surgy  storms 
To  bate  with  pennoned  snows  in  candent  air: 

Nigh  with  abased  head, 
Yourselves  linked  sisterly,  that  Sister-pair, 

And  go  in  presence  there; 
Saying — 'Your  young  eyes  cannot  see  our  forms, 
Nor  read  the  yearning  of  our  looks  aright; 
But  Time  shall  trail  the  veilings  form  our  hair, 
And  cleanse  your  seeing  with  his  euphrasy 
(Yea,  even  your  bright  seeing  m.ake  more  bright. 

Which  is  all  sights'  delight), 
And  ye  shall  know  us  for  what  things  we  be. 

'Whilom,  within  a  poet's  calyxed  heart, 
A  dewy  love  we  trembled  all  apart ; 

Whence  it  took  rise 

Beneath  your  radiant  eyes, 


SISTER  SONGS  57 

Which  misted  it  to  music.  We  must  long, 
A  floating  haze  of  silver  subtile  song, 

Await  love-laden 

Above  each  maiden 
The  appointed  hour  that  o'er  the  hearts  of  you — 

As  vapours  into  dew 

Unweave,  whence  they  were  wove, — 
Shall  turn  our  loosening  musics  back  to  love.' 


INSCRIPTION 

When  the  last  stir  of  bubbling  melodies 

Broke,  as  my  chants  sank  underneath  the  wave 

Of  dulcitude,  but  sank  again  to  rise 

WTiere  man's  embaying  mind  those  waters  lave 

(For  music  hath  its  Oceanides 

Flexuously  floating  through  their  parent  seas, 

And  such  are  these), 
I  saw  a  vision — or  may  it  be 
The  effluence  of  a  dear  desired  reality? 

I  saw  two  spirits  high, — 
Two  spirits,  dim  within  the  silver  smoke 

\Vhich  is  for  ever  woke 
By  snowing  lights  of  fountained  Poesy. 
Two  shapes  they  were,  familiar  as  love; 

They  were  those  souls,  whereof 
One  twines  from  finest  gracious  daily  things, 
Strong,  constant,  noticeless,  as  are  heart-strings. 
The  golden  cage  wherein  this  song-bird  sings; 
And  the  other's  sun  gives  hue  to  all  my  flowers. 
Which  else  pale  flowers  of  Tartarus  would  grow, 
Where  ghosts  watch  ghosts  of  blooms  in  ghostly  bowers;- 


58  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

For  we  do  know 
The  hidden  player  by  his  harmonies, 
And  by  my  thoughts  I  know  what  still  hands  thrill  the  keys. 

And  to  these  twain — as  from  the  mind's  abysses 

All  thoughts  draw  toward  the  awakening  heart's  sweet  kisses, 

With  proffer  of  their  wreathen  fantasies, — 

Even  so  to  these 
I  saw  how  many  brought  their  garlands  fair, 
Whether  of  song,  or  simple  love,  they  were, — 
Of  simple  love,  that  makes  best  garlands  fair. 
But  one  I  marked  who  lingered  still  behind. 
As  for  such  souls  no  seemly  gift  had  he: 

He  was  not  of  their  strain. 
Nor  worthy  of  so  bright  beings  to  entertain. 
Nor  fit  compeer  for  such  high  company. 
Yet  was  he,  surely,  bom  to  them  in  mind. 
Their  youngest  nursling  of  the  soirit's  kind. 

Last  stole  this  one. 
With  timid  glance,  of  watching  eyes  adread. 
And  dropped  his  frightened  flower  when  all  were  gone; 
And  where  the  frail  flower  fell,  it  withered. 
But  yet  methought  those  high  souls  smiled  thereon; 
As  when  a  child,  upstraining  at  your  knees 
Some  fond  and  fancied  nothings,  says,  'I  give  you  these!' 


LOVE  IN  DIAN'S  LAP 


PROEMION 

Hear,  my  Muses,  I  demand 
A  little  labour  at  your  hand, 

Ere  quite  is  loosed  our  amity: 
A  little  husband  out  the  sand 

That  times  the  gasps  of  Poesy! 

0  beloved,  O  ye  Two, 

W^en  the  Years  last  met,  to  you 

I  sent  a  gift  exultingly. 
My  song's  sands,  like  the  Year's,  are  few 

But  take  this  last  weak  gift  from  me. 

One  year  ago  (one  year,  one  year!) 

1  had  no  prescience,  no,  nor  fear; 

I  said  to  Oblivion:  'Dread  thou  me!' 
What  cared  I  for  the  mortal  year? 
I  was  not  of  its  company. 

Before  mine  own  Elect  stood  I, 

And  said  to  Death:  'Not  these  shall  did' 

I  issued  mandate  royally. 
I  bade  Decay:  'Avoid  and  fly, 

For  I  am  fatal  unto  thee.' 


59 


6o  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

I  sprinkled  a  few  drops  of  verse. 
And  said  to  Ruin:  'Quit  thy  hearse;' 

To  my  Loved:  'Pale  not,  come  with  me; 
I  will  escort  thee  down  the  years, 

With  me  thou  walk'st  immortally.' 

Rhyme  did  I  as  a  charmed  cup  give, 
That  who  I  would  might  drink  and  live. 

'Enter,'  I  cried,  'Song's  ark  with  me!' 
And  knew  not  that  a  witch's  sieve 

Were  built  somewhat  more  seamanly. 

I  said  unto  my  heart:  'Be  light! 
Thy  grain  will  soon  for  long  delight 

Oppress  the  future's  granary:' 
Poor  fool!  and  did  not  hear — 'This  night 

They  shall  demand  thy  song  of  thee.' 

Of  God  and  you  I  pardon  crave; 
Who  would  save  others,  nor  can  save 

My  own  self  from  mortality : 
I  throw  my  whole  songs  in  the  grave — 

They  ^vill  not  fill  that  pit  for  me. 

But  thou,  to  whom  I  sing  this  last — 
The  bitterest  bitterness  I  taste 

Is  that  thy  children  have  from  me 
The  best  I  had  where  all  is  waste. 

And  but  the  crumbs  were  cast  to  thee. 


LOVE  IN  DIAN'S  LAP  6x 

It  may  be  I  did  little  wrong; 
Since  no  notes  of  thy  lyre  belong 

To  them;  thou  leftest  them  for  me; 
And  what  didst  thou  want  of  my  song, — 

Thou,  thine  own  immortality? 

Ah,  I  would  that  I  had  yet 
Given  thy  head  one  coronet 

With  thine  ivies  to  agree! 
Ere  thou  restest  where  are  set 

Wreaths  but  on  the  breast  of  thee. 

Though  what  avails? — The  ivies  twined 
By  thine  own  hand  thou  must  unbind. 

When  there  thy  temples  laid  shall  be: 
'Tis  haply  Death's  prevision  kind 

That  ungirt  brows  lie  easily. 

*0j  all  thy  trees  thou  lovest  so, 
None  with  thee  to  grave  shall  go, 

Save  the  abhorred  cypress  tree.'"^ 
The  abhorred? — Ah,  I  know,  I  know, 

Thy  dearest  follower  it  would  be! 

Thou  would 'st  sweetly  lie  in  death 
The  dark  southerner  beneath: 

We  should  interpret,  knowing  thee, — > 
'Here  I  rest'  (her  symbol  saith), 

'And  above  me,  Italy.' 

The  words  of  Horace. 


62  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

But  above  thy  English  grave 
Who  knows  if  a  tree  shall  wave? 

Save — when  the  far  certainty 
Of  thy  fame  fulfilled  is — save 

The  laurel  that  shall  spring  from  thee. 

Very  little  carest  thou 

If  ihe  world  no  laurel-bough 

Set  in  thy  dead  hand,  ah  me! 
But  my  heart  to  grieve  allow 

For  the  fame  thou  shalt  not  seel 

Yet  my  heart  to  grieve  allow, 
With  the  grief  that  grieves  it  now, 

Looking  to  futurity, 
With  too  sure  presaging  how 

Fools  will  blind  blind  eyes  from  thee: 

Bitterly  presaging  how 
Sightless  death  must  them  endow 

With  sight,  who  gladder  blind  would  be. 
Though  our  eyes  be  blind  enow, 

Let  us  hide  them,  lest  we  see!' 

I  would  their  hearts  but  hardened  were 
In  the  way  that  I  aver 

All  men  shall  find  this  heart  of  me: 
Which  is  so  hard,  thy  name  cut  there 

Never  worn  or  blurred  can  be. 


LOVE  IN  DIAN'S  LAP  63 

it  my  song  as  much  might  say! 
But  in  all  too  late  a  day 

I  use  thy  name  for  melody; 
And  with  the  sweet  theme  assay 

To  hide  my  descant's  poverty. 

When  that  last  song  gave  I  you, 
Ye  and  I,  beloved  Two, 

Were  each  to  each  half  mystery! 
Now  the  tender  veil  is  through; 

Unafraid  the  whole  we  see. 

Small  for  you  the  danger  was! 
Statued  deity  but  thaws 

In  you  to  warm  divinity; 
Some  fair  defect  completion  flaws 

With  a  completing  grace  to  me. 

But  when  /  my  veiling  raised — 
The  Milonian  less  were  crazed 

To  talk  with  men  incarnately: 
The  poor  goddess  but  appraised 

By  her  lacking  arms  would  be. 

Though  Pan  may  have  delicious  throat, 
'Tis  hard  to  tolerate  the  goat. 

What  if  Pan  were  suddenly 
To  lose  his  singing,  every  note? — 

Then  pity  have  of  Pan,  and  mel 


04  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Love  and  Song  together  sing; 
Song  is  weak  and  fain  to  cling 

About  Love's  shoulder  wearily. 
Let  her  voice,  poor  fainting  thing, 

In  his  strong  voice  drowTied  be! 

In  my  soul's  Temple  seems  a  sound 
Of  unfolding  wings  around 

The  vacant  shrine  of  poesy: 
Voices  of  parting  songs  resound:  — 

'Let  us  go  hence!'  A  space  let  be! 

A  space,  my  Muses, — /  demand 
This  last  of  labours  at  your  hand, 

Ere   quite   is  loosed   our   amity: 
A  little  stay  the  cruel  sand 

That  times  the  gasps  of  Poesy! 


BEFORE  HER  PORTRAIT  IN  YOUTH 

As  lovers,  banished  from  their  lady's  face, 

And  hopeless  of  her  grace, 
Fashion  a  ghostly  sweetness  in  its  place, 

Fondly  adore 
Some  stealth-won  cast  attire  she  wore, 
A  kerchief,  or  a  glove: 
And  at  the  lover's  beck 
Into  the  glove  there  fleets  a  hand. 
Or  at  impetuous  command 
Up  from  the  kerchief  floats  a  virgin  neck: 
So  I,  in  very  lowlihead  of  love, — 
Too  shyly  reverencing 


LOVE  IN  DIAN'S  LAP  65 

To  let  one  thought's  light  footfall  smooth 
Tread  near  the  living,  consecrated  thing, — 

Treasure  me  thy  cast  youth. 
This  outworn  vesture,  tenantless  of  thee, 
Hath  yet  my  knee, 
For  that,  with  show  and  semblance  fair 
Of  the  past  Her 
Who  once  the  beautiful,  discarded  raimant  bare, 
It  cheateth  me. 
As  gale  to  gale  drifts  breath 
Of  blossoms'  death. 
So,  dropping  down  the  years  from  hour  to  hour, 

This  dead  youth's  scent  is  wafted  to  me  to-day: 
I  sit,  and  from  the  fragrance  dream  the  flower. 
So,  then,  she  looked  (I  say); 
And  so  her  front  sank  down 
Heavy  beneath  the  poet's  iron  crown: 
On  her  mouth  museful  sweet 
(Even  as  the  twin  lips  meet) 
Did  thought  and  sadness  greet: 

Sighs 
In  those  mournful  eyes 
So  put  on  visibilities; 
As  viewless  ether  turns,  in  deep  on  deep,  to  dyes. 

Thus,  long  ago, 
She  kept  her  meditative  paces  slow 
Through  maiden  meads,  with  waved  shadow  and  gleam 
Of  locks  half-lifted  on  the  winds  of  dream. 
Till  Love  up-caught  her  to  his  chariot's  glow. 
Yet,  voluntary,  happier  Proserpine! 

This  drooping  flower  of  youth  thou  lettest  fall 
I,  faring  in  the  cockshut-light,  astray, 
Find  on  my  'lated  way, 


00  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

And  stoop,  and  gather  for  memorial, 
And  lay  it  on  my  bosom,  and  make  it  mine. 
To  this,  the  all  of  love  the  stars  allow  me, 

I  dedicate  and  vow  me. 

I  reach  back  through  the  days 
A  trothed  hand  to  the  dead  the  last  trump  shall  not  raise. 

The  water-wraith  that  cries 
From  those  eternal  sorrows  of  thy  pictured  eyes 
Entwines  and  draws  me  down  their  soundless  intricacies. 


TO  A  POET  BREAKING  SILENCE 

Too  wearily  had  we  and  song 

Been  left  to  look  and  left  to  long. 

Yea,  song  and  we  to  long  and  look. 

Since  thine  acquainted  feet  forsook 

The  mountain  where  the  Muses  hymn 

For  Sinai  and  the  Seraphim. 

Now  in  both  the  mountains'  shine 

Dress  thy  countenance,  twice  divine! 

From  Moses  and  the  Muses  draw 

The  Tables  of  thy  double  Law! 

His  rod-born  fount  and  Castaly 

Let  the  one  rock  brins;  forth  for  thee, 

Renewing  so  from  either  spring 

The  somjs  which  both  thv  countries  sing: 

Or  we  shall  fear  lest,  heavened  thus  long, 

Thou  should'st  forcet  thv  native  song, 

And  mar  thy  mortal  melodies 

With  brokp.n  stammer  of  the  skies. 


LOVE  IN  DIAN'S  LAP  67 

An !  let  the  sweet  birds  of  the  Lord 
With  earth's  waters  make  accord; 
Teach  how  the  crucifix  may  be 
Carven  from  the  laurel-tree, 
Fruit  of  the  Hesperides 
Burnish  take  on  Eden-trees, 
The  Muses'  sacred  grove  be  wet 
With  the  red  dew  of  Olivet, 
And  Sappho  lay  her  burning  brows 
In  white  Cecilia's  lap  of  snows! 

Thy  childhood  must  have  felt  the  stings 
Of  too  divine  o'ershado wings; 
Its  odorous  heart  have  been  a  blossom 
That  in  darkness  did  unbosom, 
Those  fire-flies  of  God  to  invite, 
Burning  spirits,  which  by  night 
Bear  upon  their  laden  wing 
To  such  hearts  impregnating. 
For  flowers  that  night-wings  fertilize 
Mock  do\Vn  the  stars'  unsteady  eyes, 
And  with  a  happy,  sleepless  glance 
Gaze  the  moon  out  of  countenance. 
I  think  thy  girlhood's  watchers  must 
Have  took  thy  folded  songs  on  trust, 
And  felt  them,  as  one  feels  the  stir 
Of  still  lightnmgs  in  the  hair. 
When  conscious  hush  expects  the  clouii 
To  speak  the  golden  secret  loud 
Which  tacit  air  is  privy  to; 
Flasked  in  the  grape  the  wine  t^ey  knew, 
Ere  thy  poet-mouth  was  able 
For  its  first  young  starry  babble. 


68  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Keep'st  thou  not  yet  that  subtle  grace? 
Yea,  in  this  silent  interspace, 
God  sets  His  poems  in  thy  face! 

The  loom  which  mortal  verse  affords, 
Out  of  weak  and  mortal  words, 
Wovest  thou  thy  singing-weed  in, 
To  a  rune  of  thy  far  Eden. 
Vain  are  all  disguises!  Ah, 
Heavenly  incognita! 

Thy  mien  bewrayeth  through  that  wrong 
The  great  Uranian  House  of  Song! 
As  the  vintages  of  earth 
Taste  of  the  sun  that  riped  their  birth, 
We  know  what  never-cadent  Sun 
Thy  lamped  clusters  throbbed  upon. 
What  plumed  feet  the  winepress  trod; 
Thy  wine  is  flavorous  of  God. 
Whatever  singing-robe  thou  wear 
Has  the  Paradisal  air; 
And  some  gold  feather  it  has  kept 
Shows  what  Floor  it  lately  swept! 


"MANUS  ANIMAM  PINXIT" 

Lady  who  hold'st  on  me  dominion! 
Within  your  spirit's  arms  I  stay  me  fast 

Against  the  fell 
Immitigate  ravening  of  the  gates  of  hell; 
And  claiming  my  right  in  you,  most  hardly  won, 
Of  chaste  fidelity  upon  the  chaste: 
Hold  me  and  hold  by  me,  lest  both  should  fall 


LOVE  IN  DIAN'S  LAP  69 

(O  in  high  escalade  high  companion!) 

Even  in  the  breach  of  Heaven's  assaulted  wall. 

Like  to  a  wind-sown  sapling  grow  I  from 

The  clift,  Sweet,  of  your  skyward-jetting  soul, — 

Shook  by  all  gusts  that  sweep  it,  overcome 

By  all  its  clouds  incumbent:  O  be  true 

To  your  soul,  dearest,  as  my  life  to  you! 

For  if  that  soil  grow  sterile,  then  the  whole 

Of  me  must  shrivel,  from  the  topmost  shoot 

Of  climbing  posey,  and  my  life,  killed  through, 

Dry  down  and  perish  to  the  foodless  root. 

Sweet  Summer!  unto  you  this  swallow  drew. 
By  secret  instincts  inappeasable, 

That  did  direct  him  well. 
Lured  from  his  gelid  North  which  wrought  him  wrong, 

Wintered  of  sunning  song;  — 
By  happy  instincts  inappeasable, 

Ah  yes!  that  led  him  well. 
Lured  to  the  untried  regions  and  the  new 

Climes  of  auspicious  you; 
To  twitter  there,  and  in  his  singing  dwell. 

But  ah!   if  you,  my  Summer,  should  grow  waste, 

With  grieving  skies  o'ercast. 
For  such  migration  my  poor  wing  was  strong 
But  once;  it  has  no  power  to  fare  again 

Forth  o'er  the  heads  of  men. 
Nor  other  Summers  for  its  Sanctuary: 

But  from  your  mind's  chilled  sky 
It  needs  must  drop,  and  lie  with  stiffened  wings 

Among  your  soui's  forlomest  things; 
A  speck  upon  your  m^-nory,  alack! 
A  dead  fly  in  a  dusty  window-crack. 


70    ■  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

O  therefore  you  who  are 
What  words,  being  to  such  mysteries 
As  raiment  to  the  body  is, 

Should  rather  hide  than  tell; 
Chaste  and  intelligential  love: 
Whose  form  is  as  a  grove 
Hushed  with  the  cooing  of  an  unseen  dove; 
Whose  spirit  to  my  touch  thrills  purer  far 
Than  is  the  tingling  of  a  silver  bell; 
Whose  body  other  ladies  well  might  bear 
As  soul, — yea,  which  it  profanation  were 
For  all  but  you  to  take  as  fleshly  woof, 

Being  spirit  truest  proof; 

Whose  spirit  sure  is  lineal  to  that 

WHiich  sang  Magnificat: 

Chastest,  since  such  you  are, 
.  Take  this  curbed  spirit  of  mine, 

Which  your  own  eyes  invest  with  light  divine, 
For  lofty  love  and  high  auxiliar 

In  daily  exalt  emprise 
Which  outsoars  mortal  eyes; 
This  soul  which  on  your  soul  is  laid, 
As  maid's  breast  against  breast  of  maid; 
Beholding  how  your  own  I  have  engraved 
On  it,  and  with  what  purging  thoughts  have  laved 
This  love  of  mine  from  all  mortality. 
Indeed  the  copy  is  a  painful  one, 

And  with  long  labour  done! 
O  ii  you  doubt  the  thing  you  are,  lady, 
Come  then,  and  look  in  me; 
Your  beauty,  Dian,  dress  and  contemplate 
Within  a  pool  to  Dian  consecrate! 


LOVE  IN  DIAN'S  LAP  71 


Unveil  this  spirit,  lady,  when  you  will, 
For  unto  all  but  you  'tis  veiled  still: 
Unveil,  and  fearless  gaze  there,  you  alone. 
And  if  you  love  the  image — 'tis  your  own! 


A  CARRIER  SONG 

I 

Since  you  have  waned  from  us, 

Fairest  of  women! 
I  am  a  darkened  cage 

Songs  cannot  hymn  in. 
My  songs  have  followed  you, 

Like  birds  the  summer; 
Ah!  bring  them  back  to  me, 
Swiftly,  dear  comer! 
Seraphim, 
Her  to  hymn, 
Might  leave  their  portals; 
And  at  my  feet  learn 
The  harping  of  mortals! 

II 
Where  wings  to  rustle  use, 

But  this  poor  tarrier — 
Searching  my  spirit's  eaves — 

Find  I  for  carrier. 
Ah!  bring  them  back  to  me 

Swiftly,  sweet  comer — 
Swift,  swift,  and  bring  with  you 

Song's  Indian  summer! 


FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Seraphim^ 

Her  to  hymn, 

Might  leave  their  portals; 

And  at  my  feet  learn 

The  harping  of  mortals! 

Ill 
Whereso  your  angel  is, 

My  angel  goeth; 
I  am  left  guardianless, 

Paradise  knoweth! 
I  have  no  Heaven  left 

To  weep  my  wrongs  to; 
Heaven,  when  you  went  from  us, 
Went  with  my  songs  too. 
Seraphim, 
Her  to  hymn, 
Might  leave  their  portals; 
And  at  my  feet  learn 
The  harping  of  mortals! 

IV 

I  have  no  angels  left 

Now,  Sweet,  to  pray  to: 
Where  you  have  made  your  shrine 

They  are  away  to. 
They  have  struck  Heaven's  tent, 

And  gone  to  cover  you: 
Whereso  you  keep  your  state 

Heaven  is  pitched  over  youi 


LOVE  IN  DIAN'S  LAP  73 

Serapnim. 

Her  to  hymn, 

Might  leave  their  portals; 

And  at  my  feet  learn 

The  harping  of  mortals! 

V 
She  that  is  Heaven's  Queen 

Her  title  borrows, 
For  that  she,  pitiful, 

Beareth  our  sorrows. 
So  thou,  Regina  mi, 
Spes  infirmorum; 
With  all  our  grieving  crowned 
Mater  dolorum! 
Seraphim, 
Her  to  hymn, 
Might  leave  their  portals; 
And  at  my  feet  learn 
The  harping  of  mortals! 

VI 

Yet,  envious  coveter 

Of  others'  grieving! 
This  lonely  longing  yet 

'Scapeth  your  reaving. 
Cruel,  to  take  from  a 

Sinner  his  Heaven! 
Think  you  with  contrite  smiles 

To  be  forgiven? 


74  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  PQEMS 

Seraphim, 

Her  to  hymn, 

Might  leave  their  portals; 

And  at  my  jeet  learn 

The  harping  of  mortals/ 

VII 

Penitent!  give  me  back 

Angels,  and  Heaven; 

Render  your  stolen  self, 

And  be  forgiven! 
How  frontier  Heaven  from  you? 

For  my  soul  prays,  Sweet, 
Still  to  your  face  in  Heaven, 
Heaven  in  yoiir  face.  Sweet! 
Seraphim, 
Her  to  hymn, 
Might  leave  their  portals; 
And  at  my  feet  learn 
The  harping  of  mortals! 


SCALA  JACOBI  PORTAQUE  EBURNEA 

Her  soul   from  earth   to   Heaven  lies, 
Like  the  ladder  of  the  vision, 

Whereon  go 

To  and  fro, 
In  ascension  and  demission, 
Star-flecked  feet  of  Paradise. 


LOVE  IN  DIAN'S  LAP  75 

Now  she  is  drawn  up  from  me, 
All  my  angels,  wet-eyed,  tristful, 

Gaze  from  great 

Heaven's  gate 
Like  pent  children,  very  wistful, 
That  below  a  playmate  see. 

Dream-dispensing  face  of  hers! 
Ivory  port  which  loosed  upon  me 
Wings,  I  wist, 
Whose  amethyst 
Trepidations  have  forgone  me, — 
Hesper's  filmy  traffickers! 


GILDED  GOLD 

Thou  dost  to  rich  attire  a  grace 

To  let  it  deck  itself  with  thee, 

And  teachest  pomp  strange  cunning  ways 

To  be  thought  simplicity. 

But  lilies,  stolen  from  grassy  mold, 

No  more  curled  state  unfold 

Translated  to  a  vase  of  gold; 

In  burning  throne  though  they  keep  still 

Serenities  unthawed  and  chill. 

Therefore,  albeit  thou'rt  stately  so, 

In  statelier  state  thou  us'dst  to  go. 

Though  jewels  should  phosphoric  burn^ 
Through  those  night-waters  of  thine  hair, 
A  flower  from  its  translucid  urn 
Poured  silver  flame  more  lunar-fair. 


76  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

These  futile  trappings  but  recall 

Degenerate  worshippers  who  fall 

In  purfled  kirtle  and  brocade 

To  'parel  the  white  Mother-Maid. 

For,  as  her  image  stood  arrayed 

In  vests  of  its  self -substance  wrought 

To  measure  of  the  sculpior's  thought — 

Slurred  by  those  added  braveries; 

So  for  thy  spirit  did  devise 

Its  Maker  seemly  garniture, 

Of  its  own  essence  parcel  pure, — 

From  grave  simplicities  a  dress. 

And  reticent  demurenesses. 

And  love  encinctured  with  reserve ; 

Which  the  v/oven  vesture  should  subserve. 

For  outward  robes  in  their  ostents 

Should  show  the  soul's  habiliments. 

Therefore  I  say,— Thou'rt  fair  even  so, 

But  better  Fair  I  used  to  know. 

The  violet  would  thy  dusk  hair  deck 

With  graces  like  thine  own  unsought. 

Ah!  but  such  place  would  daze  and  wreck 

Its  simple,  lowly,  rustic  thought; 

For  so  advanced,  dear,  to  thee. 

It  would  unlearn  humiUty! 

Yet  do  not,  with  an  altered  look. 

In  these  weak  numbers  read  rebuke; 

Which  are  but  jealous  lest  too  much 

God's  master-piece  thou  shouldst  retouch. 

Where  a  sweetness  is  complete. 

Add  not  sweets  unto  the  sweet! 

Or,  as  thou  wilt,  for  others  so 


LOVE  IN  DIAN'S  LAP  77 

In  unfamiliar  richness  go; 

But  keep  for  mine  acquainted  eyes 

The  fashions  of  thy  Paradise. 


HER  PORTRAIT 

Oh,  but  the  heavenly  grammar  did  I  hold 

Of  that  high  speech  which  angels'  tongues  turn  gold! 

So  should  her  deathless  beauty  take  no  wrong, 

Praised  in  her  own  great  kindred's  fit  and  cognate  tongue: 

Or  if  that  language  yet  with  us  abode 

Which  Adam  in  the  garden  talked  with  God! 

But  our  untempered  speech  descends — poor  heirs! 

Grimy  and  rough-cast  still  from  Babel's  bricklayers: 

Curse  on  the  brutish  jargon  we  inherit, 

Strong  but  to  damn,  not  memorize,  a  spirit! 

A  cheek,  a  lip,  a  limb,  a  bosom,  they 

Move  with  light  ease  in  speech  of  working-day; 

And  women  we  do  use  to  praise  even  so. 

But  here  the  gates  we  burst,  and  to  the  temple  go. 

Their  praise  were  her  dispraise:  who  dare,  who  dare, 

Adulate  the  seraphim  for  their  burning  hair? 

How,  if  with  them  I  dared,  here  should  I  dare  it? 

How  praise  the  woman,  who  but  know  the  spirit? 

How  praise  the  colour  of  her  eyes,  uncaught 

While  they  were  coloured  with  her  varying  thought? 

How  her  mouth's  shape,  who  only  use  to  know 

What  tender  shape  her  speech  will  fit  it  to? 

Or  her  lips'  redness,  when  their  joined  veil 

Song's  fervid  hand  has  parted  till  it  wore  them  pale? 


78  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

If  I  would  praise  her  soul  (temerarious  if!), 
All  must  be  mystery  and  hieroglyph. 
Heaven,  which  not  oft  is  prodigal  of  its  more 
To  singers,  in  their  song  too  great  before 
(By  which  the  hierarch  of  large  poesy  is 
Restrained  to  his  one  sacred  benefice), 
Only  for  her  the  salutary  awe 
Relaxes  and  stern  canon  of  its  law; 
To  her  alone  concedes  pluralities, 
In  her  alone  to  reconcile  agrees 
The  Muse,  the  Graces,  and  the  Charities; 
To  her,  who  can  the  trust  so  well  conduct, 
To  her  it  gives  the  use,  to  us  the  usufruct. 

What  of  the  dear  administress  then  may 

I  utter,  though  I  spoke  her  own  carved  perfect  way? 

What  of  her  daily  gracious  converse  known. 

Whose  heavenly  despotism  must  needs  dethrone 

And  subjugate  all  sweetness  but  its  own? 

Deep  in  my  heart  subsides  the  infrequent  word, 

And  there  dies  slowly  throbbing  like  a  wounded  bird. 

What  of  her  silence,  that  outsweetens  speech? 

What  of  her  thoughts,  high  marks  for  mine  own  thoughts 

to  reach? 
Yet,  (Chaucer's  antique  sentence  so  to  turn) 
Most  gladly  will  she  teach,  and  gladly  learn; 
And  teaching  her,  by  her  enchanting  art. 
The  master  threefold  learns  for  all  he  can  impart. 
Now  all  is  said,  and  all  being  said,— aye  me! 
There  yet  remains  unsaid  the  very  She. 
Nay,  to  conclude  (so  to  conclude  I  dare), 
If  of  her  virtues  you  evade  the  snare. 
Then  for  her  faults  you'll  fall  in  love  with  her. 


LOVx.  IN  DIAN'S  LAP  79 

Alas,  and  I  have  spoken  of  her  Muse — 

Her  Muse,  that  died  with  her  auroral  dews! 

Learn,  the  wise  cherubim  from  harps  of  gold 

Seduce  a  trepidating  music  manifold; 

But  the  superior  seraphim  do  know 

None  other  music  but  to  flame  and  glow. 

So  she  first  lighted  on  our  frosty  earth, 

A  sad  musician,  of  cherubic  birth, 

Playing  to  alien  ears — which  did  not  prize 

The  uncomprehended  music  of  the  skies — 

The  exiled  airs  of  her  far  Paradise. 

But  soon,  from  her  own  harpings  taking  fire, 

In  love  and  light  her  melodies  expire. 

Now  Heaven  affords  her,  for  her  silenced  hymn, 

A  double  portion  of  the  seraphim. 

At  the  rich  odours  from  her  heart  that  rise, 

My  soul  remembers  its  lost  Paradise, 

And  antenatal  gales  blow  from  Heaven's  shores  of  spice; 

I  grow  essential  all,  uncloaking  me 

From  this  encumbering  virility, 

And  feel  the  primal  sex  of  heaven  and  poetry: 

And,  parting  from  her,  in  me  linger  on 

Vague  snatches  of  Uranian  antiphon. 

How  to  the  petty  prison  could  she  shrink 

Of  femineity?— Nay,  but  I  think 

In  a  dear  courtesy  her  spirit  would 

Woman  assume,  for  grace  to  womanhood. 

Or,  votaress  to  the  virgin  Sanctitude 

Of  reticent  withdrawal's  sweet,  courted  pale, 

She  took  the  cloistral  flesh,  the  sexual  veil, 

Of  her  sad,  aboriginal  sisterhood; 

The  habit  of  cloistral  flesh  which  founding  Eve  indued. 


CO  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Thus  do  I  know  her.  But  for  what  men  call 

Beauty — the  loveliness  corporeal, 

its  most  just  praise  a  thing  unproper  were 

To  singer  or  to  listener,  me  or  her. 

She  wears  that  body  but  as  one  indues; 

A  robe,  half  careless,  for  it  is  the  use; 

Although  her  soul  and  it  so  fair  agree, 

We  sure  may,  unattaint  of  heresy, 

Conceit  it  might  the  souFs  begetter  be. 

The  immortal  could  we  cease  to  contemplate, 

The  mortal  part  suggests  its  every  trait. 

God  laid  His  fingers  on  the  ivories 

Of  her  pure  members  as  on  smoothed  keys. 

And  there  out-breathed  her  spirit's  harmonies. 

I'll  speak  a  little  proudly: — I  disdain 

To  count  the  beauty  worth  my  VN^ish  or  gain. 

Which  the  dull  daily  fool  can  covet  or  obtain. 

I  do  confess  the  fairness  of  the  spoil, 

But  from  such  rivalry  it  takes  a  soil. 

For  her  I'll  proudlier  speak: — how  could  it  be 

That  I  should  praise  the  gilding  on  the  psaltery? 

'Tis  not  for  her  to  hold  that  prize  a  prize. 

Or  praise  much  praise,  though  proudest  in  its  wise, 

To  which  even  hopes  of  merely  women  rise. 

Such  strife  would  to  the  vanquished  laurels  yield, 

Against  her  suffered  to  have  lost  a  field. 

Herself  must  with  herself  be  sole  compeer, 

Unless  the  people  of  her  distant  sphere 

Some  gold  migration  send  to  melodize  the  year. 

But  first  our  hearts  must  burn  in  larger  guise, 

To  reformate  the  uncharitable  skies. 

And  so  the  deathless  plumage  to  acclimatize: 

Since  this,  their  sole  congener  in  our  clime, 

Droops  her  sad,  ruffled  thoughts  for  half  the  shivering  time. 


LOVE  IN  DIAN'S  LAP  »i 

Yet  I  have  felt  what  terrors  may  conscri 

In  women's  cheeks,  the  Graces'  soft  resort; 

My  hand  hath  shook  at  gentle  hands'  access, 

And  trembled  at  the  waving  of  a  tress; 

My  blood  known  panic  fear,  and  fled  dismayed, 

Where  ladies'  eyes  have  set  their  ambuscade; 

The  rustle  of  a  robe  hath  been  to  me 

The  very  rattle  of  love's  musketry; 

Although  my  heart  hath  beat  the  loud  advance, 

I  have  recoiled  before  a  challenging  glance, 

Proved  gay  alarms  where  warlike  ribbons  dance. 

And  from  it  all,  this  knowledge  have  I  got, — 

The  whole  that  others  have,  is  less  than  they  have  not; 

All  which  makes  other  women  noted  fair, 

Unnoted  would  remain  and  overshone  in  her. 

How  should  I  gauge  what  beauty  is  her  dole. 

Who  cannot  see  her  countenance  for  her  soul, 

As  birds  see  not  the  casement  for  the  sky? 

And,  as  'tis  check  they  prove  its  presence  by, 

I  know  not  of  her  body  till  I  find 

My  flight  debarred  the  heaven  of  her  mind. 

Hers  is  the  face  whence  all  should  copied  be. 

Did  God  make  replicas  of  such  as  she; 

Its  presence  felt  by  what  it  does  abate, 

Because  the  soul  shines  through  tempered  and  mitigate: 

Where — as  a  figure  labouring  at  night 

Beside  the  body  of  a  splendid  light — 

Dark  Time  works  hidden  by  its  luminousness; 

And  every  line  he  labours  to  impress 

Turns  added  beauty,  like  the  veins  that  run 

Athwart  a  leaf  which  hangs  against  the  sun. 


S2  FRANCIS  THOMF'SON'S  POEMS 

There  regent  Melancholy  wide  controls; 

There  Earth-  and  Heaven-Love  play  for  aureoles; 

There  Sweetness  out  of  Sadness  breaks  at  fits, 

Like  bubbles  on  dark  water,  or  as  flits 

A  sudden  silver  fin  through  its  deep  infinites: 

There  amorous  Thought  has  sucked  pale  Fancy's  breath, 

And  Tenderness  sits  looking  toward  the  lands  of  Death: 

There  Feeling  stills  her  breathing  with  her  hand, 

And  Dream  from  Melancholy  part  wrests  the  wand; 

And  on  this  lady's  heart,  looked  you  so  deep, 

Poor  Poetry  has  rocked  himself  to  sleep: 

Upon  the  heavy  blossom  of  her  lips 

Hangs  the  bee  Musing;  nigh  her  lids  eclipse 

Each  half-occulted  star  beneath  that  lies; 

And,  in  the  contemplation  of  those  eyes. 

Passionless  passion,  wild  tranquillities. 


EPILOGUE  TO  THE  POET'S  SITTER 

Wherein  he  excuseth  himself  for  the  manner  of  the  Portrau. 

Alas!  now  wilt  thou  chide,  ai.d  say  (I  deem) 

My  figure  descant  hides  the  simple  theme: 

Or,  in  another  wise  reproving,  say 

I  ill  observe  thine  own  high  reticent  way. 

Oh,  pardon,  that  I  testify  of  thee 

What  thou  couldst  never  speak,  nor  others  be! 

Yet  (for  the  book  is  not  more  innocent 
Of  what  the  gazer's  eyes  make  30  intent), 
She  will  but  smile,  perhaps,  that  I  find  my  fair 
Sufficing  scope  in  such  a  straU  tlieme  as  her. 


LOVE  IN  DIAN'S  LAP  83 

'Bird  of  the  sun!  the  stars'  wild  honey-bee' 

Is  your  gold  browsing  done  so  thoroughly? 

Or  sinks  a  singed  wing  to  narrow  nest  in  me?* 

(Thus  she  might  say:  for  not  this  lowly  vein 

Out-deprecates  her  deprecating  strain.) 

Oh,  you  mistake,  dear  lady,  quite;  nor  know 

Ether  was  strict  as  you,  its  loftiness  as  low! 

The  heavens  do  not  advance  their  majesty  ' 

Over  their  marge;  beyond  his  empery 

The  ensigns  of  the  wind  are  not  unfurled, 

His  reign  is  hooped  in  by  the  pale  o'  the  world. 

'Tis  not  the  continent,  but  the  contained. 

That  pleasaunce  makes  or  prison,  loose  or  chained. 

Too  much  alike  or  little  captives  me. 

For  all  oppression  is  captivity. 

What  groweth  to  its  height  demands  no  higher; 

The  limit  limits  not,  but  the  desire. 

Our  minds  make  their  own  Termini,  nor  call 

The  issuing  circumscriptions  great  or  small ; 

So  high  constructing  Nature  lessons  to  us  all: 

Who  optics  gives  accommodate  to  see 

Your  countenance  large  as  looks  the  sun  to  be, 

And  distant  greatness  less  than  near  humanity. 

We,  therefore,  with  a  sure  instinctive  mind. 
An  equal  spaciousness  of  bondage  find 
In  confines  far  or  near,  of  air  or  our  own  kind. 
Our  looks  and  longings,  which  affronts  the  stars, 
Most  richly  bruised  against  their  golden  bars. 
Delighted  captives  of  their  flaming  spears. 
Find  a  restraint  restrainless  which  appears 


84  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

As  that  is,  and  so  simply  natural, 

In  you; — the  fair  detention  freedom  call, 

And  overscroll  with  fancies  the  loved  prison-wall 


Such  sweet  captivity,  and  only  such, 

In  you,  as  in  those  golden  bars,  we  touch! 

Our  gazes  for  sufficing  limits  know 

The  firmament  above,  your  face  below; 

Our  longings  are  contented  with  the  skies, 

Contented  with  the  heaven,  and  your  eyes. 

My  restless  wings,  that  beat  the  v/hole  world  through. 

Flag  on  the  confines  of  the  sun  and  you; 

And  find  the  human  pale  remoter  of  the  two. 


DOMUS  TUA 

A  PERFECT  woman — Thine  be  laud! 
Her  body  is  a  Temple  of  God. 
At  Doom-bar  dare  I  make  avows: 
I  have  loved  the  beauty  of  Thy  house. 


IN  HER  PATHS 

And  she  has  trod  before  me  in  these  ways! 
I  think  that  she  has  left  here  heavenlier  days; 
And  I  do  guess  her  passage,  as  the  skies 

Of  holy   Paradise 

Turn  deeply  holier, 
And,  looking  up  with  sudden  new  delight, 
One  knows  a  seraph-wing  has  passed  in  flight. 


LOVE  IN  DIAN'S  LAP  85 

The  air  is  purer  for  her  breathing,  sure! 

And  all  the  fields  do  wear 

The  beauty  fallen  from  her; 
The  winds  do  brush  me  with  her  robe's  allure. 
'Tis  she  has  taught  the  heavens  to  look  sweet, 

And  they  do  but  repeat 
The  heaven,  heaven,  heaven  of  her  face! 
The  clouds  have  studied  going  from  her  grace! 
The  pools  whose  marges  had  forgot  the  tread 
Of  Naiad,  disenchanted,  fled, 

A  second  time  must  mourn, 

Bereaven  and  forlorn. 

Ah,  foolish  pools  and  meads!  You  did  not  see 

Essence  of  old,  essential  pure  as  she. 

For  this  v/as  even  that  Lady,  and  none  other. 

The  man  in  me  calls  'Love,'  the  child  calls  'Mother/ 

AFTER  HER  GOING 

The  after-even!  Ah,  did  I  walk, 

Indeed,  in  her  or  even? 
For  nothing  of  me  or  around 

But  absent  She  did  leaven. 
Felt  in  my  body  as  its  soul, 

And  in  my  soul  its  heaven. 

'Ah  me!  my  very  flesh  turns  soul, 

Essenced,'  I  sighed,  'with  bliss!' 
And  the  blackbird  held  his  lutany. 

All  fragrant- through  with  bliss; 
And  all  things  stilled  were  as  a  maid 

Sweet  with  a  single  kiss. 


86  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

For  grief  of  perfect  fairness,  eve 

Could  nothing  do  but  smile; 
The  time  was  far  too  perfect  fair, 

Being  but  for  a  while; 
And  ah,  in  me,  too  happy  grief 

Blinded  herself  with  smile! 

The  sunset  at  its  radiant  heart 

Had  somewhat  unconfest: 
The  bird  was  loath  of  speech,  its  song 

Half-refluent  on  its  breast, 
And  made  melodious  toyings  with 

A  note  or  two  at  best. 

And  she  was  gone,  my  sole,  my  Fair, 

Ah,  sole  my  Fair,  was  gone! 
Methinks,  throughout  the  world  'twere  right 

I  had  been  sad  alone; 
And  yet,  such  sweet  in  all  things'  heart. 

And  such  sweet  in  my  own! 


BENEATH  A  PHOTOGRAPH 

Phoebus,  who  taught  me  art  divine. 
Here  tried  his  hand  where  I  did  mine; 
And  his  white  fingers  in  this  face 
Set  my  Fair's  sigh-suggesting  grace. 
O  sweetness  past  profaning  guess. 
Grievous  with  its  own  exquisiteness! 
Vesper-like  face,  its  shadows  bright 
With  meanings  of  sequestered  light; 
Drooped  with  shamefast  sanctities 


LOVE  IN  DIAN'S  LAP  87 

She  purely  fears  eyes  cannot  miss, 

Yet  would  blush  to  know  she  is. 

Ah,  who  can  view  with  passionless  glance 

Ihis  tear-compelling  countenance? 

He  has  cozened  it  to  tell 

Almost  its  own  miracle. 

Yet  I,  all-viewing  though  he  be, 

Methinks  saw  further  here  than  he; 

And,  Master  gay,  I  swear  I  drew 

Something  the  better  of  the  two! 


» 


THE  HOUND  OF  HEAVEN 

I  FLED  Him,  down  the  nights  and  down  the  days; 

I  fled  Him,  down  the  arches  of  the  years; 
I  fled  Him,  down  the  labyrinthine  ways 

Of  my  own  mind;  and  in  the  mist  of  tears 
I  hid  from  Him,  and  under  running  laughter. 
Up  vistaed  hopes  I  sped; 
And  shot,  precipitated, 
Adown  Titanic  glooms  of  chasmed  fears, 

From  those  strong  Feet  that  followed,  .followed  after. 
But  with  unhurrying  chase. 
And  unperturbed  pace, 
Deliberate  speed,  majestic  instancy. 
They  beat — and  a  Voice  beat 
More  instant  than  the  Feet — 
'All  things  betray  thee,  who  betrayest  Me.' 

I  pleaded,  outlaw-wise. 

By  many  a  hearted  casement,  curtained  red, 
Trellised  with  intertwining  charities; 

(For,  though  I  knew  His  love  Who  followed, 
Yet  was  I  sore  adread 

Lest-  having  Him,  I  must  have  naught  beside.) 

But,  if  one  little  casement  parted  wide. 
The  gust  of  His  approach  would  clash  it  to: 
Fear  wist  not  to  evade,  as  Love  wist  to  pursue. 

Across  the  margent  of  the  world  I  fled, 


THE  HOUND  OF  HEAVEN  89 

And  troubled  the  gold  gateways  of  the  stars, 
Smiting  for  shelter  on  their  clanged  bars; 
Fretted  to  dulcet  jars 
And  silvern  chatter  the  pale  ports  0'  the  moon. 
I  said  to  Dawn:  Be  sudden — to  Eve:  Be  soon; 
With  thy  young  skiey  blossoms  heap  me  over 
From  this  tremendous  Lover — 
Float  thy  vague  veil  about  me,  lest  He  see! 

I  tempted  all  His  servitors,  but  to  find 
My  own  betrayal  in  their  constancy, 
In  faith  to  Him  their  fickleness  to  me, 

Their  traitorous  trueness,  and  their  loyal  deceit. 
To  all  swift  things  for  swiftness  did  I  sue; 
Clung  to  the  whistling  mane  of  every  wind. 
But  whether  they  swept,  smoothly  fleet, 
The  long  savannahs  of  tlie  blue; 
Or  whether,  Thunder-driven, 
They  clanged  his  chariot  'thwart  a  heaven, 
Plashy  with  flying  lightnings  round  the  spurn  0'  their  feet: — 
Fear  wist  not  to  evade  as  Love  wist  to  pursue. 
Still  with  unhurrying  chase, 
And  unperturbed  pace, 
Deliberate  speed,  majestic  instancy. 
Came  on  the  following  Feet, 
And  a  Voice  above  their  beat— 
'Naught  shelters  thee,  who  wilt  not  shelter  Me.' 

I  sought  no  more  that  after  which  I  strayed 

In  face  or  man  or  maid; 
But  still  within  the  little  children's  eyes 

Seems  something,  something  that  replies, 
They  at  least  are  for  me,  surely  for  me! 
I  turned  me  to  them  very  wistfully; 


90  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

But  just  as  their  young  eyes  grew  sudden  fair 

With  dawning  answers  there, 
Their  angel  plucked  them  from  me  by  the  hair. 
•Come  then,  ye  other  children.  Nature's — share 
With  me'  (said  I)  'your  delicate  fellowship; 

Let  me  greet  you  lip  to  lip. 

Let  me  twine  with  you  caresses. 
Wantoning 

With  our  Lady-Mother's  vagrant  tresses, 
Banqueting 

With  her  in  her  wind-walled  palace, 

Underneath  her  azured  dais. 

Quaffing,  as  your  taintless  way  is, 
From  a  chalice 
Lucent-weeping  oui  oi  the  dayspring.' 

So  it  was  done: 
/  in  their  delicate  fellowship  was  one — 
Drew  the  bolt  of  Nature's  secrecies. 

/  knew  all  the  swift  importings 

On  the  wilful  face  of  skies; 

I  knew  how  the  clouds  arise 

Spumed  of  the  wild  sea-snortings; 
All  that's  born  or  dies 

Rose  and  drooped  with;  made  them  shapers 
Of  mine  own  moods,  or  wailful  or  divine; 

With  them  joyed  and  was  bereaven. 

I  was  heavy  with  the  even. 

When  she  lit  her  glimmering  tapers 

Round  the  day's  dead  sanctities. 

I  laughed  in  the  r-i^rniT^or's  eyes. 
I  triumphed  and  I  saddened  with  all  weather, 

Heaven  and  I  wept  together. 
And  its  sweet  tears  were  salt  with  mortal  mine; 


THE  HOUND  OF  HEAVEN  91 

Against  the  red  throb  of  its  sunset-heart 
I  laid  my  own  to  beat, 
And  share  commingling  heat; 
But  net  by  that,  by  that,  was  eased  my  human  smart. 
In  vain  my  tears  were  wet  on  Heaven's  grey  cheek. 
For  ah!  we  know  not  what  each  other  says. 

These  things  and  I;  in  sound  /  speak — 
Their  sound  is  but  their  stir,  they  speak  by  silences. 
Nature,  poor  stepdame,  cannot  slake  my  drouth; 

Let  her,  if  she  would  owe  me, 
Drop  yon  blue  bosom-veil  of  sky,  and  show  me 

The  breasts  0'  her  tenderness; 
Never  did  any  milk  of  hers  once  bless 
My  thirsting  mouth. 
Nigh  and  nigh  draws  the  chase. 
With  unperturbed  pace. 
Deliberate  speed,  majestic  instancy; 
And  past  those  noised  Feet 
A  voice  comes  yet  more  fleet — 
'Lo!  naught  contents  thee,  who  content'st  not  Me.' 

Naked  I  wait  Thy  love's  uplifted  stroke! 
My  harness  piece  by  piece  Thou  hast  hewn  from  me, 
And  smitten  me  to  my  knee; 

I  am  defenceless  utterly. 

I  slept,  methinks,  and  woke, 
And,  slowly  gazing,  find  me  stripped  in  sleep. 
In  the  rash  lustihead  of  my  young  powers, 

I  shook  the  pillaring  hours 
And  pulled  my  life  upon  me;  grimed  with  smears, 
I  stand  amid  the  dust  0'  the  mounded  years — 
My  mangled  youth  lies  dead  beneath  the  heap. 
My  days  have  crackled  and  gone  up  in  smoke, 


92  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Have  puffed  and  burst  as  sun-starts  on  a  stream. 

Yea,  faileth  now  even  dream 
The  dreamer,  and  the  lute  the  lutanist- 
Even  the  linked  fantasies,  in  whose  blossomy  twist 
I  swung  the  earth  a  trinket  at  my  wrist. 
Are  yielmng;  cords  of  all  too  weak  account 
For  earth  with  heavy  griefs  so  overplussed. 

Ah!  is  Thy  love  indeed 
A  weed,  albeit  an  amaranthine  weed, 
Suffering  no  flowers  except  its  own  to  mount? 

Ah!  must — 

Designer  infinite!  — 
Ah !  must  Thou  char  the  wood  ere  Thou  canst  limn  with  it? 
My  freshness  spent  its  wavering  shower  i'  the  dust; 
And  now  my  heart  is  as  a  broken  fount, 
Wherein  tear-drippings  stagnate,  spilt  down  ever 

From  the  dank  thoughts  that  shiver 
Upon  the  sighful  branches  of  my  mind. 

Such  is;  what  is  to  be? 
The  pulp  so  bitter,  how  shall  taste  the  rind? 
I  dimly  guess  what  Time  in  mists  confounds; 
Yet  ever  and  anon  a  trumpet  sounds 
From  the  hid  battlements  of  Eternity; 
Those  shaken  mists  a  space  unsettle,  then 
Round  the  half-glimpsed  turrets  slowly  wash  again. 

But  not  ere  him  who  summoneth 

I  first  have  seen,  enwound 
With  glooming  robes  purpureal,  cypress-crowned; 
His  name  I  know,  and  what  his  trumpet  saith. 
Whether  man's  heart  or  life  it  be  which  yields 

Thee  harvest,  must  Thy  harvest-fields 

Be  dunged  with  rotten  death? 


THE  HOUND  OF  HEAVEN  93 

Now  of  that  long  pursuit 
Comes  on  at  hand  the  bruit; 
That  Voice  is  round  me  like  a  bursting  sea: 
'And  is  thy  earth  so  marred, 
Shattered  in  shard  on  shard? 
Lo,  all  things  fly  thee,  for  thou  fliest  Me! 
Strange,   piteous,    futile   thing! 
Wherefore  should  any  set  thee  love  apart? 
Seeing  none  but  I  makes  much  of  naught'  (He  said), 
'And  human  love  needs  human  meriting: 

How  hast  thou  merited — 
Of  all  man's  clotted  clay  the  dingiest  clot? 

Alack,  thou  knowest  not 
How  little  worthy  of  any  love  thou  art! 
Whom  wilt  thou  find  to  love  ignoble  thee, 

Save  Me,  save  only  Me? 
All  which  I  took  from  thee  I  did  but  take^ 

Not  for  thy  harms. 
But  just  that  thou  might'st  seek  it  in  My  arms. 

All  which  thy  child's  mistake 
Fancies  as  lost,  I  have  stored  for  thee  at  home: 
Rise,  clasp  My  hand,  and  come!' 
Halts  by  me  that  footfall: 
Is  my  gloom,  after  all, 
Shade  of  His  hand,  outstretched  caressingly? 
'Ah,  fondest,  blindest,  weakest, 
I  am  He  Whom  thou  seekest! 
Thou  dravest  love  from  thee,  who  dravest  Me.' 


ODE  TO  THE  SETTING  SUN 
PRELUDE 

The  wailful  sweetness  of  the  violin 

Floats  down  the  hushed  waters  of  the  wind, 

The  heart-strings  of  the  throbbing  harp  begin 
To  long  in  aching  music.  Spirit-pined, 

In  wafts  that  poignant  sweetness  drifts,  until 
The  wounded  soul  ooze  sadness.  The  red  sun, 

A  bubble  of  fire,  drops  slowly  toward  the  hill. 
While  one  bird  prattles  that  the  day  is  done. 

O  setting  Sun,  that  as  in  reverent  days 
Sinkest  in  music  to  thy  smoothed  sleep. 

Discrowned  of  homage,  though  yet  crowned  with  rays, 
Hymned  not  at  harvest  more,  though  reapers  reap: 

For  thee  this  music  wakes  not.  O  deceived. 
If  thou  hear  in  these  thoughtless  harmonies 

A  pious  phantom  of  adorings  reaved, 
And  echo  of  fair  ancient  flatteries! 

Yet,  in  this  field  where  the  Cross  planted  reigns, 
I  know  not  what  strange  passion  bows  my  head 

To  thee,  whose  great  command  upon  my  veins 
Proves  thee  a  god  for  me  not  dead,  not  dead! 


94 


ODE  TO  THE  SETTlxNG  SUN  95 

For  worship  it  is  too  incredulous, 

For  doubt — oh,  too  believing-passionate* 
What  wild  divinity  makes  my  heart  thus 

A  fount  of  most  baptismal  tears? — Thy  straight 

Long  geam  lies  steady  on  the  Cross.  Ah  me! 

What  secret  would  thy  radiant  finger  show? 
Of  thy  bright  mastership  is  this  the  key? 

Is  this  thy  secret,  then?  And  is  it  woe? 

Fling  from  thine  ear  the  burning  curls,  and  hark 
A  song  thou  hast  not  heard  in  Northern  day; 

For  Rome  too  daring,  and  for  Greece  too  dark, 
Sweet  with  wild  things  that  pass,  that  pass  away! 


ODE 

Alpha  and  Omega,  sadness  and  mirth. 

The  springing  music,  and  its  wasting  breath — 
The  fairest  things  in  life  are  Death  and  Birth, 

And  of  these  two  the  fairer  thing  is  Death. 
Mystical  twins  of  Time  inseparable, 

The  younger  hath  the  holier  array. 
And  hath  the  awfuUer  sway: 

It  is  the  falling  star  that  trails  the  light. 

It  is  the  breaking  wave  that  hath  the  might, 
The  passing  shower  that  rainbows  maniple. 

Is  it  not  so,  O  thou  down-striken  Day, 
That  draw'st  thy  splendours  round  thee  in  thy  fall? 
High  was  thine  Eastern  pomp  inaugural; 
But  thou  dost  set  in  statelier  pageantry, 

Lauded  with  tumults  of  a  firmament: 


Ob  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Thy  visible  music-blasts  make  deaf  the  sky, 
Thy  cymbals  clang  to  fire  the  Occident, 

Thou  dost  thy  dying  so  triumphally: 

I  see  the  crimson  blaring  of  thy  shawms! 
VVhy  doth  those  lucent  palms 

Strew  thy  feet's  failing  thicklier  than  their  might, 

Who  dost  but  hood  thy  glorious  eyes  with  night, 

And  vex  the  heels  of  all  the  yesterdays? 
Lo!   this  loud,  lackeying  praise 

Will  stay  behind  to  greet  the  usurping  moon, 
When  they  have  cloud-barred  over  thee  the  West. 

Oh,  shake  the  bright  dust  from  thy  parting  shoon! 
The  earth  not  paeans  thee,  nor  serves  thy  hest; 

Be  godded  not  by  Heaven!   avert  thy  face, 
And  leave  to  blank  disgrace 

The  oblivious  world!  unsccptre  thee  of  state  and  place! 

Ha!  but  bethink  thee  what  thou  gazedst  on, 

Ere  yet  the  snake  Decay  had  venomed  tooth; 
The  name  thou  bar'st  in  those  vast  seasons  gone — 
Candid  Hyperion, 
Clad  in  the  light  of  thine  immortal  youth! 
Ere  Dionysus  bled  thy  vines, 
Or  Artemis  drave  her  clamours  through  the  wood, 

Thou  saw'st  how  once  against  Olympus'  height 
The  brawny  Titans  stood, 
And  shook  the  gods'  world  'bout  their  ears,  and  how 
Enceladus  (whom  Etna  cumbers  now) 

Shouldered  me  Pelion  w^ith  its  swinging  pines. 
The  river  unrecked,  that  did  its  broken  flood 
Spurt  on  his  back:  before  the  mountainous  shock 

The  ranked  gods  dislock, 
Scared  to  their  skies;   wide  o'er  rout- trampled  night 


ODE  TO  THE  SETTING  SUN  97 

Flew  spurned  the  pebbled  stars:  those  splendours  then 
Had  tempested  on  earth,  star  upon  star 
Mounded  in  ruin,  if  a  longer  war 
Had  quaked  Olympus  and  cold-fearing  men. 
Then  did  the  ample  marge 
And  circuit  of  thy  targe 
Sullenly  redden  all  the  vaward  fight, 
Above  the  blusterous  clash 
Wheeled  thy  swung  falchion's  flash, 
And  hewed  their  forces  into  splintered  flight. 

Yet  ere  Olympus  thou  wast,  and  a  god! 

Though  we  deny  thy  nod, 
We  cannot  spoil  thee  of  thy  divinity. 
What  know  we  elder  than  thee? 
When  thou  didst,  bursting  from  the  great  void's  husk, 
Leap  like  a  lion  on  the  throat  0'  the  dusk; 
When  the  angels  rose-chapleted 

Sang  each  to  other, 
The  vaulted  blaze  overhead 
Of  their  vast  pinions  spread, 
Hailing  thee  brother; 
How  chaos  rolled  back  from  the  wonder. 
And  the  First  Morn  knelt  down  to  thy  visage  of  thunder! 
Thou  didst  draw  to  thy  side 
Thy  young  Auroral  bride. 
And  lift  her  veil  of  night  and  mystery; 
Tellus  with  baby  hands 
Shook  off  her  swaddling-bands, 
And  from  the  unswathed  vapours  laughed  to  thee. 


98  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Thou  twi-form  deity,  nurse  at  once  and  sire! 
Thou  geiiitor  that  all  things  nourishest! 
The  earth  was  suckled  at  thy  shining  breast, 
And  in  her  veins  is  quick  thy  milky  fire. 
Who  scarfed  her  with  the  morning?  and  who  set 
Upon  her  brow  the  day-fall's  carcanet? 

Who  queened  her  front  with  the  enrondured  moon? 
Who  dug  nights'  jewels  from  their  vaulty  mine 
To  dower  her,  past  an  eastern  wizard's  dreams, 
When,  hovering  on  him  through  his  haschish-swoon, 
All  the  rained  gems  of  the  old  Tartarian  line 
Shiver  in  lustrous  throbbings  of  tinged  flame? 
Whereof  a  moiety  in  the  Paolis'  seams 
Statelily  builded  their  Venetian  name. 
Thou  hast  enwoofed  her 
An  empress  of  the  air, 
And  all  her  births  are  propertied  by  thee: 
Her  teeming  centuries 
Drew  being  from  thine  eyes: 
Thou  fatt'st  the  marrow  of  all  quality. 

Who  lit  the  furnace  of  the  mammoth's  heart? 
Who  shagged  him  like  Pilatus'  ribbed  flanks? 
Who  raised  the  columned  ranks 
Of  that  old  pre-diluvian  forestry, 
Which  like  a  continent  torn  oppressed  the  sea, 
When  the  ancient  heavens  did  in  rains  depart, 
While  the  high-danced  whirls 
Of  the  tossed  scud  made  hiss  thy  drenched  curls? 
Thou  rear'dst  the  enormous  brood; 
Who  hast  with  life  imbued 
The  lion  maned  in  tawny  majesty, 


ODE  TO  THE  SETTING  SUN  99 

The  tiger  velvet-barred, 
The  stealthy-stepping  pard, 
And  the  lithe  panther's  flexous  symmetry? 

How  came  the  entombed  tree  a  light-bearer. 
Though  sunk  in  lightless  lair? 
Friend  of  the  forgers  of  earth, 
Mate  of  the  earthquake  and  thunders  volcanic. 
Clasped  in  the  arms  of  the  forces  Titanic 
Which  rock  like  a  cradle  the  girth 
Of  the  ether-hung  world; 
Swart  son  of  the  swarthy  mine, 
When  flame  on  the  breath  of  his  nostrils  feeds 
How  is  his  countenance  half-divine, 
Like  thee  in  thy  sanguine  weeds? 
Thou  gavest  him  his  light. 
Though  sepultured  in  night 
Beneath  the  dead  bones  of  a  perished  world; 
Over  his  prostrate  form 
Though  cold,  and  heat,  and  storm. 
The  mountainous  wrark  of  a  creation  hurled. 

Who  made  the  splendid  rose 

Saturate  with  purple  glows; 
Cupped  to  the  marge  with  beauty;  a  perfume-press 

Whence  the  wind  vintages 
Gushes  of  warmed  fragrance  richer  far 

Than  all  the  flavorous  ooze  of  Cyprus'  vats? 
Lo,  in  yon  gale  which  waves  her  green  cymar. 

With  dusky  cheeks  burnt  red 

She  sways  her  heavy  head. 
Drunk  with  the  must  of  her  own  odorousness; 
While  in  a  moted  trouble  the  vexed  gnats 


100  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Maze,  and  vibrate,  and  tease  the  noontide  hush. 

Who  girt  dissolved  lightnings  in  the  grape? 
Summered  the  opal  with  an  Irised  flush? 
Is  it  not  thou  that  dost  the  tulip  drape, 
And  huest  the  daffodilly, 
Yet  who  hast  snowed  the  lily. 
And  her  frail  sister,  whom  the  waters  name. 
Dost  vestal-vesture  'mid  the  blaze  of  June, 
Cold  as  the  new-sprung  girlhood  of  the  moon 
Ere  Autumn's  kiss  sultry  her  cheek  with  flame? 
Thou  sway'st  thy  sceptred  beam 
O'er  all  delight  and  dream, 
Beauty  is  beautiful  but  in  thy  glance: 
And  like  a  jocund  maid 
In  garland-flowers  arrayed, 
Before  thy  ark  Earth  keeps  her  sacred  dance. 

And  now,  O  shaken  from  thine  antique  throne, 

And  sunken  from  thy  coerule  empery, 
Now  that  the  red  glare  of  thy  fall  is  blown 
In  smoke  and  flame  about  the  windy  sky. 
Where  are  the  wailing  voices  that  should  meet 

From  hill,  stream,  grove,  and  all  of  mortal  shape 
Who  tread  thy  gifts,  in  vineyards  as  stray  feet 
Pulp  the  globed  weight  of  juiced  Iberia's  grape? 
Where  is  the  threne  o'  the  sea? 
And  why  not  dirges  thee 
The  wind,  that  sings  to  himself  as  he  makes  stride 
Lonely  and  terrible  on  the  Andean  height? 

Where  is  the  Naid  'mid  her  s worded  sedge? 
The  Nymph  wan-glimmering  by  her  wan  fouxit's  verge? 
The  Dryad  at  timid  gaze  by  the  wood-side? 
The  Oread  jutting  light 


ODE  TO  THE  SETTING  SUN  loi 

On  one  up-strained  sole  from  the  rock-ledge? 
The  Nereid  tip-toe  on  the  scud  o'  the  surge, 
With  whistling  tresses  dank  athwart  her  face, 
And  all  her  figure  poised  in  lithe  Circean  grace? 
Why  withers  their  lament? 
Their  tresses  tear-besprent, 
Have  they  sighed  hence  with  trailing  garment-hem? 

0  sweet,  O  sad,  O  fair, 

1  catch  your  flying  hair, 

Draw  your  eyes  down  to  me,  and  dream  on  them ! 

A  space,  and  they  fleet  from  me.  Must  ye  fade — 

O  old,  essential  candours,  ye  who  made 
The  earth  a  living  and  a  radiant  thing — 

And  leave  her  corpse  in  our  strained,  cheated  arms? 
Lo  ever  thus,  when  Song  with  chorded  charms 

Draws  from  dull  death  his  lost  Eurydice, 
Lo  ever  thus,  even  at  consummating. 
Even  in  the  swooning  minute  that  claims  her  his, 
Even  as  he  trembles  to  the  impassioned  kiss 
Of  reincarnate  Beauty,  his  control 
Clasps  the  cold  body,  and  forgoes  the  soul! 
Whatso  looks  lovelily 

Is  but  the  rainbow  on  life's  weeping  rain. 

Why  have  we  longings  of  immortal  pain, 

And  all  we  long  for  mortal?  Woe  is  me, 

And  all  our  chants  but  chaplet  some  decay. 

As  mine  this  vanishing — nay,  vanished  Day. 

The  low  sky-line  dusks  to  a  leaden  hue, 
No  rift  disturbs  the  heavy  shade  and  chill. 

Save  one,  where  the  charred  firmament  lets  throu^' 

The  scorching  dazzle  of  Heaven;   'gainst  \<)h'\f'i-  .Lv  hil); 
Out-flattened  sombrely, 


102  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Stands  black  as  life  against  eternity. 

Against  eternity? 

A  rifting  light  in  me 
Burns  through  the  leaden  broodings  of  the  mind: 

O  blessed  Sun,  thy  state 

Uprisen  or  derogate 
Dafts  me  no  more  with  doubt;  I  seek  and  find. 

If  with  exultant  tread 

Thou  foot  the  Eastern  sea, 
Or  like  a  golden  bee 
Sting  the  West  to  angry  red, 
Thou  dost  image,  thou  dost  follow 

That  King-Maker  of  Creation, 
Who,  ere  Hellas  hailed  Apollo, 
Gave  thee,  angel-god,  thy  station; 
Thou  art  of  Him  a  type  memorial. 

Like  Him  thou  hang'st  in  dreadful  pomp  of  blood 

Upon  thy  Western  rood; 
And  His  stained  brow  did  vail  like  thine  to  night, 
Yet  lift  once  more  Its  light, 
And,  risen,  again  departed  from  our  ball, 
But  when  It  set  on  earth  arose  in  Heaven. 
Thus  hath  He  unto  death  His  beauty  given: 
And  so  of  all  which  form  inheriteth 

The  fall  doth  pass  the  rise  in  worth; 
For  birth  hath  in  itself  the  germ  of  death, 
But  death  hath  in  itself  the  germ  of  birth. 
It  is  the  falling  acorn  buds  the  tree. 
The  falling  rain  that  bears  the  greenery, 

The  fern-plants  moulder  when  the  ferns  arise. 
For  there  is  nothing  lives  but  something  dies, 
And  there  is  nothing  dies  but  something  lives. 


ODE  TO  THE  SETTING  SUN  103 

Till  skies  be  fugitives, 
Till  Time,  the  hidden  root  of  change,  updries. 
Are  Birth  and  Death  inseparable  on  earth; 
For  they  are  twain  yet  one,  and  Death  is  Birth. 


AFTER-STRAIN 

Now  with  wan  ray  that  other  sun  of  Song 

Sets  in  the  bleakening  waters  of  my  soul: 
One  step,  and  lo !  the  Cross  stands  gaunt  and  long 

'Twixt  me  and  yet  bright  skies,  a  presaged  dole. 

Even  so,  O  Cross!  thine  is  the  victory. 

Thy  roots  are  fast  within  our  fairest  fields; 
Brightness  may  emanate  in  Heaven  from  thee. 

Here  thy  dread  symbol  only  shadow  yields. 

Of  reaped  joys  thou  art  the  heavy  sheaf 

Which  must  be  lifted,  though  the  reaper  groan; 

Yea,  we  may  cry  till  Heaven's  great  ear  be  deaf, 
But  we  must  bear  thee,  and  must  bear  alone. 

Vain  were  a  Simon;  of  the  Antipodes 

Our  night  not  borrows  the  superfluous  day. 

Yet  woe  to  him  that  from  his  burden  flees, 
Crushed  in  the  fall  of  what  he  cast  away. 

Therefore,  O  tender  Lady,  Queen  Mary, 
Thou  gentleness  that  dost  enmoss  and  drape 

The  Cross's  rigorous  austerity. 

Wipe  thou  the  blood  from  wounds  that  needs  must  gape. 


104  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

'Lo,  though  suns  rise  and  set,  but  crosses  stay, 
I  leave  thee  ever,'  saith  she,  'light  of  cheer.' 

'Tis  so:  yon  sky  still  thinks  upon  the  Day, 
And  showers  aerial  blossoms  on  his  bier. 

Yon  cloud  with  wrinkled  fire  is  edged  sharp; 

And  once  more  welling  through  the  air,  ah  me! 
How  the  sweet  viol  plains  him  to  the  harp. 

Whose  panged  sobbings  throng  tumultuously. 

Oh,  this  Medusa-pleasure  with  her  stings! 

This  essence  of  all  suffering,  w^hich  is  joy! 
I  am  not  thankless  for  the  spell  it  brings. 

Though  tears  must  be  told  down  for  the  charmed  toy. 

No;  while  soul,  sky,  and  music  bleed  together, 
Let  me  give  thanks  even  for  those  griefs  in  me, 

The  restless  windward  stirrings  of  whose  feather 
Prove  them  the  brood  of  immortality. 

My  soul  is  quitted  of  death-neighbouring  swoon, 

Who  shall  not  slake  her  immitigable  scars 
Until  she  hear  'My  sister!'  from  the  moon. 

And  take  the  kindred  kisses  of  the  stars. 


TO  THE  DEAD  CARDINAL  OF  WESTMINSTER 

{Heiiry  Edward  Mantling:  Died  January  1892) 

I  WILL  not  perturbate 
Thy  Paradisal  state 
With  praise 
Of  thy  dead  days; 

To  the  new-heavened  say, 
'Spirit,  thou  wert  fine  clay': 
This  do, 
Thy  praise  who  knew. 

Therefore  my  spirit  clings 
Heaven's  porter  by  the  wings, 
And  holds 
Its  gated  golds 

Apart,  with  thee  to  press 
A  private  business: — 
Whence, 
Deign  me  audience. 

Anchorite,  who  didst  dwell 
With  all  the  world  for  cell. 
My  soul 
Round  me  doth  roll 

Tctr 


io6  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

A  sequestration  bare. 
Too  far  alike  we  were, 
To  far 
Dissimilar. 

,    For  its  burning  fruitage  I 
Do  climb  the  tree  o'  the  sky; 
Do  prize 
Some  human  eyes. 

You  smelt  the  Heaven-blossoms, 
And  all  the  sweet  embosoms 
The  dear 
Uranian  year. 

Those  Eyes  my  weak  gaze  shuns, 
Which  to  the  suns  are  Suns, 
Did 
Not  affray  your  lid. 

The  carpet  was  let  down 
(With  golden  moultings  strewn) 
For  you 
Of  the  angels'  blue. 

But  I,  ex-Paradised, 
The  shoulder  of  your  Christ 
Find  high 
To  lean  thereby. 

So  flaps  my  helpless  sail, 
Bellying  with  neither  gale, 
Of  Heaven 
Nor  Orcus  even. 


TO  THE  DEAD  CARDINAL  107 

Life  is  coquetry 
Of  death,  which  wearies  me, 
Too  sure 
Of  the  amour; 

A  tiring-room  where  I 
Death's  divers  garments  try, 
Till  fit 
Some  fashion  sit. 

It  seemeth  me  too  much 
I  do  rehearse  for  fuch 
A  mean 
And  single  scene. 

The  sandy  glass  hence  bear- 
Antique  remembrancer: 
My  veins 
Do  spare  its  pains. 

With  secret  sympathy 
My  thoughts  repeat  in  me 
Infirm 
The  turn  0'  the  worm 

Beneath  my  appointed  sod; 
The  grave  is  in  my  blood ; 
I  shake 
To  winds  that  take 

Its  grasses  by  the  top; 
The  rains  thereon  that  drop 
Perturb 
With  drip  acerb 


io2  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

My  subtly  answering  soul; 
The  feet  across  its  knoll 
Do  jar 
Me  from  afar. 

As  sap  foretastes  the  spring; 
As  Earth  ere  blossoming 
Thrills 
With  far  daffodils, 

And  feels  her  breast  turn  sweet 
With  the  unconceived  wheat ; 
So  doth 
My  flesh  foreloathe 

The  abhorred  spring  of  Dis, 
With  seething  presciences 
Affirm 
The  preparate  worm. 

I  have  no  thought  that  I, 
When  at  the  last  I  die, 
Shall  reach 
To  gain  your  speech. 

But  you,  should  that  be  so, 
May  very  well,  I  know. 
May  well 
To  me  in  hell 

With  recognizing  eyes 
Look  down  from  your  Paradise — 
'God  bless 
Thy  hopelessness!' 


TO  THE  DEAD  CARDINAL  109 

Call,  holy  soul,  O  call 
The  hosts  angelical. 
And  say, — ■ 
'See,  far  away 

^Lies  one  I  saw  on  earth; 
One  stricken  from  his  birth 
With  curse 
Of  destinate  verse. 

'What  place  doth  He  ye  serve 
For  such  sad  spirit  reserve, — 
Given, 
In  dark  lieu  of  Heaven, 

'The  impitiable  Daemon, 
Beauty,  to  adore  and  dream  on. 
To  be 
Perpetually 

'Hers,  but  she  never  his? 
He  reapeth  miseries; 
Foreknows 
His  wages  woes; 

'He  lives  detached  days; 
He  serveth  not  for  praise; 
For  gold 
He  is  not  sold; 

'Deaf  is  he  to  world's  tongue; 
He  scometh  for  his  song 
The  loud 
Shouts  of  the  crowd; 


no  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

*He  asketh  not  world's  eyes; 
Not  to  world's  ears  he  cries; 
Saith,— "These 
Shut,  if  ye  please!" 

*He  measureth  world's  pleasure, 
World's  ease,  as  Saints  might  measure 
For  hire 
Just  love  entire 

*He  asks,  not  grudgi"ng  pain; 
And  knows  his  asking  vain. 
And  cries — 
"Love!  Love!"  and  dies, 

*In  guerdon  of  long  duty. 
Unowned  by  Love  or  Beauty; 
And  goes — 
Tell,  tell,  who  knows! 

'Aliens  from  Heaven's  worth, 
Fine  beasts  who  nose  i'  the  earth, 
Do  there 
Reward  prepare. 

'But  are  his  great  desires 
Food  but  for  nether  fires? 
Ah  me, 
A  mystery! 

*Can  it  be  his  alone, 
To  find  when  all  is  known, 
That   Tvhat 
He  solely  sought 


iO  THu:  DEAD  L.ARDINAL  i" 

Is  lost,  and  thereto  lost 
All  that  its  seeking  cost? 
That  he 
Must  finally, 

^Through  sacrificial  tears, 
And  anchoretic  years. 
Tryst 
With  the  sensualist?* 

So  ask;  and  if  they  tell 
The  secret  terrible, 

Good  friend, 
I  pray  thee  send 

Some  high  gold  embassage 
To  teach  my  unripe  age. 
Tell! 
Lest  my  feet  walk  hell. 


A  CORY M BUS  FOR  AUTUMN 

Hearken  my  chant,  'tis 

As  a  Bacchante's, 
A  grape-spurt,  a  vine-splash,  a  tossed  tress,  flown  vaunt  'tis 

Suffer  my  singing, 
Gipsy  of  Seasons,  ere  thou  go  winging; 

Ere  Winter  throws 

His  slaking  snows 
In  thy  f easting-flagon's  impurpurate  glows! 
The  sopped  sun — toper  as  ever  drank  hard — 

Stares  foolish,  hazed, 

Rubicund,  dazed, 
Totty  with  thine  October  tankard. 
Tanned  maiden!  with  cheeks  like  apples  russet, 

And  breast  a  brown  agaric  faint-flushing  at  tip, 
And  a  mouth  too  red  for  the  moon  to  buss  it 
But  her  cheek  unvow  its  vestalship; 

Thy  mists  enclip 
Her  steel-clear  circuit  Aluminous, 

Until  it  crust 

Rubiginous 
With  tlie  glorious  gules  of  a  glowing  rust. 

Far  other  saw  we,  other  indeed. 

The  crescent  moon,  in  the  May-days  dead. 
Fly  up  with  its  slender  white  wings  spread 

Out  of  its  nest  in  the  sea's  waved  mead. 


112 


A  CORYMBUS  FOR  AUTUMN  113 

How  are  the  veins  of  thee,  Autumn,  laden? 

Umbered  juices, 

And  pulped  oozes 
Pappy  out  of  the  cherry-bruises, 
Froth  the  veins  of  thee,  wild,  wild  maiden  1 

With  hair  that  musters 

In  globed  clusters. 
In  tumbling  clusters,  like  swarty  grapes, 
Round  thy  brow  and  thine  ears  o'ershaden; 
With  the  burning  darkness  of  eyes  like  pansies, 

Like  velvet  pansies 

Wherethrough  escapes 
The  splendid  might  of  thy  conflagrate  fancies; 
With  robe  gold-ta\vny  not  hiding  the  shapes 
Of  the  feet  whereunto  it  falleth  down, 

Thy  naked  feet  unsandalled; 
With  robe  gold-tawny  that  does  not  veil 

Feet  where  the  red 

Is  meshed  in  the  brown, 
Like  a  rubied  sun  in  a  Venice-sail. 

The  wassailous  heart  of  the  Year  is  thine! 
His  Bacchic  fingers  disentwine 

His  coronal 

At  thy  festival; 
His  revelling  fingers  disentwine 

Leaf,  flower,  and  all. 

And  let  them  fall 
Blossom  and  all  in  thy  wavering  wine. 
The  Summer  looks  out  from  her  brazen  tower, 

Through  the  flashing  bars  of  July, 
Waiting  thy  ripened  golden  shower; 

Whereof  there  cometh,  with  sandals  fleet. 


114  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

The  North-west  flying  viewlessly, 
With  a  sword  to  sheer,  and  untameable  teet, 
And  the  gorgon-head  of  the  Winter  shown 
To  stiffen  the  gazing  earth  as  stone. 

In  crystal  Heaven's  magic  sphere 

Poised  in  the  palm  of  thy  fervid  hand, 
Thou  seest  the  enchanted  shows  appear 
That  stain  Favonian  firmament; 
Richer  than  ever  the  Occident 

Gave  up  to  bygone  Summer's  wand. 
Day's  dying  dragon  lies  drooping  his  crest. 
Panting  red  pants  into  the  West. 
Or  the  butterfly  sunset  claps  its  wings 

With  flitter  alit  on  the  swinging  blossom, 
The  gusty  blossom,  that  tosses  and  swings, 

Of  the  sea  with  its  blown  and  ruffled  bosom; 
Its  ruffled  bosom  wherethrough  the  wind  sings 
Till  the  crisped  petals  are  loosened  c>nd  strown 
Overblown,  on  the  sand; 
Shed,  curling  as  dead 
Rose-leaves  curl,  on  the  flecked  strand. 

Or  higher,  holier,  saintlier  when,  as  now, 
All  Nature  sacerdotal  seems,  and  thou. 

The  calm  hour  strikes  on  yon  goldeL  gong, 
In  tones  of  floating  and  mellow  light 
A  spreading  summons  to  even- song: 
See  how  there 
The  cowled  Night 
Kneels  on  the  Eastern  sanctuary-stair. 
What  is  this  feel  of  incense  everywhere? 

Clings  it  round  folds  of  the  blanch-ar;iiced  clouds. 


A  CORYMBUS  FOR  AUTUMN  iiS 

Upwafted  by  the  solemn  thurifer, 

The  mighty  Spirit  unknown, 
That  swingeth  the  slow  earth  before  the  embannered 
Throne? 
Or  is't  the  Season  under  all  these  shrouds 
Of  light,  and  sense,  and  silence,  makes  her  known 

A  presence  everywhere, 

An  inarticulate  prayer, 
A  hand  on  the  soothed  tresses  of  the  air? 

But  there  is  one  hour  scant 
Of  this  Titanian,  pirmal  liturgy; 

As  there  is  but  one  hour  for  me  and  thee, 
Autumn,  for  thee  and  thine  hierophant. 

Of  this  grave-ending  chant. 

Round  the  earth  still  and  stark 
Heaven's  death-lights  kindle,  yellow  spark  by  spark, 
Beneath  the  dreadful  catafalque  of  the  dark. 

And  I  had  ended  there: 
But  a  great  wind  blew  all  the  stars  to  flare, 
And  cried,  T  sweep  the  path  before  the  moon! 
Tarry  ye  now  the  coming  of  the  moon, 

For  she  is  coming  soon'; 
Then  died  before  the  coming  of  the  moon. 
And  she  came  forth  upon  the  trepidant  air, 

In  vesture  unimagined-fair. 

Woven  as  woof  of  flag-lilies; 

And  curdled  as  of  flag-lilies 

The  vapour  at  the  feet  of  her, 
And  a  haze  about  her  tinged  in  fainter  wise; 
As  if  she  had  trodden  the  stars  in  press, 
Till  the  gold  wine  spurted  over  her  dress. 
Till  the  gold  wine  gushed  out  round  her  feet; 


ii6  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Spouted  over  her  stained  wear, 
And  bubbled  in  golden  froth  at  her  feet, 

And  hung  like  a  whirlpool's  mist  round  her. 

Still,  mighty  Season,  do  I  see't, 
Thy  sway  is  still  majestical! 
Thou  hold'st  of  God,  by  title  sure, 
Thine  indefeasible  investiture. 

And  that  right  round  thy  locks  are  native  to; 
The  heavens  upon  thy  brow  imperial, 

This  huge  terrene  thy  ball, 
And  o'er  thy  shoulders  thrown  wide  air's  depending  pall. 
What  if  thine  earth  be  blear  and  bleak  of  hue? 

Still,  still  the  skies  are  sweet! 
Still,  Season,  still  thou  hast  thy  triumphs  there! 
How  have  I,  unaware. 
Forgetful  of  my  strain  inaugural. 

Cleft  the  great  rondure  of  thy  reign  complete. 
Yielding  thee  half,  who  hast  indeed  the  all? 
I  will  not  think  thy  sovereignty  begun 

But  with  the  shepherd  Sun 
That  washes  in  the  sea  the  stars'  gold  fleeces; 

Or  that  with  Day  it  ceases. 
Who  sets  his  burning  lips  to  the  salt  brine, 

And  purples  it  to  wine; 
While  I  behold  how  ermined  Artemis 
Ordained  weed  must  wear, 
And  toil  thy  business; 
Who  witness  am  of  her, 
Her  too  in  autumn  turned  a  vintager; 
And,  laden  with  its  lamped  clusters  bright, 
The  fiery-fruited  vineyard  of  this  night. 


ECCLESIASTICAL  BALLADS 


THE  VETERAN  OF  HEAVEN 

O  CAPTAIN  of  the  wars,  whence  won  Ye  so  great  scars? 

In  what  fight  did  Ye  smite,  and  what  manner  was  the  foe? 
Was  it  on  a  day  of  rout  they  compassed  Thee  about, 

Or  gat  Ye  these  adornings  when  Ye  wrought  their 
overthrow? 

*  Twas  on  a  day  of  rout  they  girded  Me  about, 

They  wounded  all  My  brow,  and  they  smote  Me  through 
the  side: 
My  hand  held  no  sword  when  I  met  their  armed  horde, 
And  the  conqueror  fell  down,  and  the  Conquered  bruised 
his  pride.' 

What  is  this,  unheard  before,  that  the  Unarmed  makes  war, 
And  the  Slain  hath  the  gain,  and  the  Victor  hath  the 
rout? 
What  wars,  then,  are  these,  and  what  the  enemies, 

Strange  Chief,  with  the  scars  of  Thy  conquest  trenched 
about? 

The  Prince  I  drave  forth  held  the  Mount  of  the  North, 
Girt  with  the  guards  of  flame  that  roll  round  the  pole. 

117 


ii8  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

I  drave  him  with  My  wars  from  all  his  fortress-stars, 
And  the  sea  of  death  divided  that  My  march  might  strike 
its  goal. 

'In  the  heart  of  Northern  Guard,  many  a  great  dasmonian 
sword 
Burns  as  it  turns  round  the  Mount  occult,  apart: 
There  is  given  him  power  and  place  still  for  some  certain 
days. 
And  his  name  would  turn  the  Sun's  blood  back  upon  its 
heart.' 

What  is  Thy  Name?  Oh,  show! — 'My  Name  ye  may  not 
know; 
'Tis  a  going  forth  with  banners,  and  a  baring  of  much 
swords: 
But  My  titles  that  are  high,  are  they  not  upon  My  thigh? 
"King  of  Kings!"  are  the  words,  "Lord  of  Lords!"; 
It  is  written  "King  of  Kings,  Lord  of  Lords." ' 

II 

LILIUM  REGIS 

0  LILY  of  the  King!  low  lies  thy  silver  wing, 

And  long  has  been  the  hour  of  thine  unqueening; 
And  thy  scent  of  Paradise  on  the  night-wind  spills  its  sighs, 

Nor  any  take  the  secrets  of  its  meaning. 
O  Lily  of  the  King!  I  speak  a  heavy  thing, 

O  patience,  most  sorrowful  of  daughters! 
Lo,  the  hour  is  at  hand  for  the  troubling  of  the  land, 

And  red  shall  be  the  breaking  of  the  waters. 


ECCLESIASTICAL  BALLADS  119 

Sit  fast  upon  thy  stalk,  when  the  blast  shall  with  thee  talk, 

With  the  mercies  of  the  King  for  thine  awning; 
And  the  just  understand  that  thine  hour  is  at  hand, 

Thine  hour  at  hand  with  power  in  the  dawning. 
When  the  nations  lie  in  blood,  and  their  kings  a  broken 
brood, 

Look  up,  O  most  sorrowful  of  daughters! 
Lift  up  thy  head  and  hark  what  sounds  are  in  the  dark, 

For  His  feet  are  coming  to  thee  on  the  waters! 

O  Lily  of  the  King!  I  shall  not  see,  that  sing, 

I  shall  not  see  the  hour  of  thy  queening! 
But  my  Song  shall  see,  and  wake  like  a  flower  that  dawn- 
winds  shake, 

And  sigh  with  joy  the  odours  of  its  meaning. 
O  Lily  of  the  King,  remember  then  the  thing 

That  this  dead  mouth  sang;  and  thy  daughters, 
As  they  dance  before  His  way,  sing  there  on  the  Day 

What  I  sang  when  the  Night  was  on  the  waters! 


TRANSLATIONS 

A  SUNSET 

FROM  Hugo's  'feuilles  d'automne' 

I  LOVE  the  evenings,  passionless  and  fair,  I  love  the  evens, 
Whether  old  manor-fronts  their  ray  with  golden   fulgence 
leavens, 

In  numerous  leafage  bosomed  close; 
Whether  the  mist  in  reefs  of  fire  extend  its  reaches  sheer, 
Or  a  hundred  sunbeams  splinter  in  an  azure  atmosphere 

On  cloudy  archipelagos. 

Oh  gaze  ye  on  the  firmament!  a  hundred  clouds  in  motion, 
Up-piled  in   the   immense  sublime  beneath   the   winds' 
commotion. 

Their  unimagined  shapes  accord: 
Under  their  waves  at  intervals  flames  a  pale  levin  through, 
As  if  some  giant  of  the  air  amid  the  vapours  drew 

A  sudden  elemental  sword. 

The  sun  at  bay  with  splendid  thrusts  still  keeps  the  sullen 

fold; 
And  momently  at  distance  sets,  as  a  cupola  of  gold. 

The  thatched  roof  of  a  cot  a-glance; 
Or  on  the  blurred  horizon  joins  his  battle  with  the  haze: 
Or  pools  the  glooming  fields  about  with  inter-isolate  blaze, 

Great  moveless  meres  of  radiance. 


120 


TRANSLATIONS  121 

Then  mark  you  how  there  hangs  athwart  the  firmament's 

swept  track, 
Yonder,  a  mighty  crocodile  with  vast  irradiant  back, 

A  triple  row  of  pointed  teeth? 
Under  its  burnished  belly  slips  a  ray  of  eventide, 
The  flickerings  of  a  hundred  glowing  clouds  its  tenebrous 
side 

With  scales  of  golden  mail  ensheathe. 

Then  mounts  a  palace,  then  the  air  vibrates — the  vision  flees. 
Confounded  to  its  base,  the  fearful  cloudy  edifice 

Ruins  immense  in  mounded  wrack: 
Afar  the  fragments  strew  the  sky,  and  each  envermeiled 

cone 
Hangeth,  peak  downward,  overhead,  like  mountains  over- 
thrown 

When  the  earthquake  heaves  its  hugy  back. 

These   vapours,    with    their   leaden,    golden,    iron,    bronzed 

glows, 
Where   the   hurricane,    the   waterspout,    thunder,    and   hell 
repose. 

Muttering  hoarse  dreams  of  destined  harms, — 
'Tis  God  who  hangs  their  multitude  amid  the  skiey  deep, 
As  a  warrior  that  suspendeth  from  the  roof-tree  of  his  keep 
His  dreadful  and  resounding  arms! 

All  vanishes!   The  sun,  from  topmost  heaven  precipitated, 
Like  a  globe  of  iron  which  is  tossed  back  fiery  red 

Into  the  furnace  stirred  to  fume, 
Shocking  the  cloudy  surges,  plashed  from  its  impetuous  ire, 
Even  to  the  zenith  spattereth  in  a  flecking  scud  of  fire 

The  vaporous  and  inflamed  spume. 


122  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

O  contemplate  the  heavens!   Whenas  the  vein- drawn  day 

dies  pale, 
In  every  season,  every  place,  gaze  through  their  every  veil, 

With  love  that  has  not  speech  for  need! 
Beneath  their  solemn  beauty  is  a  mystery  infinite: 
If  winter  hue  them  like  a  pall,  or  if  the  summer  night 

Fantasy  them  with  starry  brede. 


HEARD  ON  THE  MOUNTAIN 

FROM  Hugo's  'feuilles  d'automne' 

Have  you  sometimes,  calm,  silent,  let  your  tread  aspirant 

rise 
Up  to  the  mountain's  summit,  in  the  presence  of  the  skies? 
Was't  on  the  borders  of  the  South?   or  on  the  Bretagne 

coast? 
And  at  the  basis  of  the  mount  had  you  the  Ocean  tossed? 
And  there,  leaned  o'er  the  wave  and  o'er  the  immeasur- 

ableness. 
Calm,  silent,  have  you  harkened  what  it  says?     Lo,  what 

it  says! 
One  day  at  least,  whereon  my  thought,  enlicensed  to  muse. 
Had  drooped  its  wing  above  the  beached  margent  of  the 

ooze, 
And,  plunging  from  the  mountain  height  into  the  immensity. 
Beheld  upon  one  side  the  land,  on  the  other  side  the  sea. 
I  hearkened,  comprehended, — never,  as  from  those  abysses. 
No,  never  issued  from  a  mouth,  nor  moved  an  ear  such 

voice  as  this  is! 


TRANSLATIONS  123 

A  sound  it  was,  at  outset,  immeasurable,  confused, 
Vaguer  than  is  the  wind  among  the  tufted  trees  effused. 
Full  of  magnificent  accords,  suave  murmurs,  sweet  as  is 
The  evensong,  and  mighty  as  the  shock  of  panoplies 
When  the  hoarse  77ielee  in  its  arms  the  closing  squadrons 

grips, 
And  pants,  in  furious  breathings,  from  the  clarions'  brazen 

lips. 
Unutterable  the  harmony,  unsearchable  its  deep, 
Whose  fluid  undulations  round  the  world  a  girdle  keep, 
And  through  the  vasty  heavens,  which  by  its  surges  are 

washed  young. 
Its  ihfinite  volutions  roll,  enlarging  as  they  throng, 
Evcii  to  the  profound  arcane,  whose  ultimate  chasms  sombre 
Its  shattered  flood  englut  with  time,  with  space  and  form 

and  number. 
Like  to  another  atmosphere,  with  thin  o'erflowing  robe. 
The  hymn  eternal  covers  all  the  inundated  globe: 
And  the  world,  swathed  about  with  this  investuring  sym- 
phony, 
Even  as  it  trepidates  in  the  air,  so  trepidates  in  the  har- 
mony. 

And  pensive,  I  attended  the  ethereal  lutany. 

Lost  within  this  containing  voice  as  if  within  the  sea. 

Soon  I  distinguished,  yet  as  tone  which  veils  confuse  and 

smother. 
Amid  this  voice  two  voices,  one  commingled  with  the  other, 
Which  did  from  off  the  land  and  seas  even  to  the  heavens 

aspire; 
Chanting  the  universal  chant  in  simultaneous  quire. 


124  FRANCIS  THOxMPSON'S  POEMS 

And  I  distinguished  them  amid  that  deep  and  nimorous 

sound, 
As  who  beholds  two  currents  thwart  amid   the  fluctuous 

profound. 

The  one  was  of  the  waters;   a  be-radiant  hymnal  speech  1 
That  was  the  voice  o'  the  surges,  as  they  parleyed  each 

with  each. 
The  other,  which  arose  from  our  abode  terranean, 
Was  sorrowful;  and  that,  alack!  the  murmur  was  of  man; 
And  in  this  mighty  quire,  whose  chantings  day  and  night 

resound, 
Every  wave  had  its  utterance,  and  every  man  his  sound. 

Now,  the  magnificent  Ocean,  as  I  said,  unbannering 
A  voice  of  joy,  a  voice  of  peace,  did  never  stint  to  sing, 
Most  like  in  Sion's  temples  to  a  psaltery  psaltering, 
And  to  creation's  beauty  reared  the  great  lauds  of  his  song. 
Upon  the  gale,  upon  the  squall,  his  clamour  borne  along 
Unpausingly  arose  to  God  in  more  triumphal  swell; 
And    every    one   among  his   waves,    that    God   alone    can 

quell, 
When   the   other   of   its   song  made   end,   into   the   singing 

pressed. 
Like  that  majestic  lion  whereof  Daniel  was  the  guest, 
At  intervals  the  Ocean  his  tremendous  murmur  awed; 
And,  toward  where  the  sunset  fires  fell  shaggily  and  broad, 
Under  his  golden  mane,  methought  that  I  saw  pass  the  hand 

of  God. 
Meanwhile,  and  side  by  side  wnth  that  august  fanfaronnade 
The  other  voice,  like  the  sudden  scream  of  a  destrier  affrayed, 
Tike  an  infernal  door  that  grates  ajar  its  rusty  throat, 
Like  to  a  bow  of  iron  that  gn-^rls  umn  an  iron  rote, 


TRANSLATIONS  125 

Grinded;  and  tears,  and  shriekings,  the  anathema,  the  lewd 

taunt, 
Refusal  of  viaticum,  refusal  of  the  font, 
And    clamour,    and    malediction,    and    dread    blasphemy, 

among 
That  hurtling  crowd  of  rumour   from   the   diverse  human 

tongue. 
Went  by  as  who  beholdeth,  when  the  valleys  thick  t'ward 

night. 
The  long  drifts  of  the  birds  of  dusk  pass,  blackening  flight 

on  flight. 
What    was    this    sound    whose    thousand    echoes    vibrated 

unsleeping? 
Alas!  the  sound  was  earth's  and  man's,  for  earth  and  man 

were  weeping. 

Brothers!  of  these  two  voices  strange,  most  unimaginably, 
Unceasingly  regenerated,  dying  unceasingly, 
Hearkened  of  the  Eternal  throughout  His  Eternity, 
The    one    voice    uttereth    Nature,    and    the    other    voice 
Humanity. 

Then  I  alit  in  reverie;  for  my  ministering  sprite, 
Alack!  had  never  yet  deployed  a  pinion  of  an  ampler  flight. 
Nor  ever  had  my  shadow  endured  so  large  a  day  to  bum: 
And  long  I  rested  dreaming,  contemplating  turn  by  turn 
Now  that  abyss  obscure  which  lurked  beneath  the  water's 

roll. 
And  now  that  other  untemptable  abyss  which  opened  in 

my  soul. 
And  I  made  question  of  me,  to  w^hat  issues  are  we  here, 
Whither    should    tend    the    thwarting    threads    of    all    this 

ravelled  gear; 


126  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

What  doth  the  soul ;  to  be  or  live  if  better  worth  it  is ; 

And  why  the  Lord,  Who,  only,  reads  within  that  book  of 
His, 

In  fatal  hymeneals  hath  eternally  entwined 

The  vintage-chant  of  nature  with  the  dirging  cry  of  human- 
kind? 

The  metre  of  the  second  of  these  two  translations  is  an  ex- 
periment. The  splendid  fourteen-syllable  metre  of  Chapman  I 
have  treated  after  the  manner  of  Drydenian  rhyming  heroics, 
with  the  occasional  triplet,  and  even  the  occasional  Alexandrine, 
a  treatment  which  can  well  extend,  I  believe,  the  majestic  re- 
sources of  the  metre. 

AN  ECHO  OF  VICTOR  HUGO 

Life's  a  veil  the  real  has: 

All  the  shadows  of  our  scene 
Are  but  shows  of  things  that  pass 

On  the  other  side  the  screen. 

Time  his  glass  sits  nodding  by; 

'Twixt  its  turn  and  turn  a  spawn 
Of  universes  buzz  and  die 

Like  the  ephemeris  of  the  dawn. 

Turn  again  the  wasted  glass! 

Kingly  crown  and  warrior's  crest 
Are  not  worth  the  blade  of  grass 

God  fashions  for  the  swallow's  nest. 

Kings  must  lay  gold  circlets  down 

In  God's  sepulchral  ante-rooms. 
The  wear  of  Heaven's  the  thorny  crown: 

He  paves  His  temples  with  their  tombs. 


heakd  on  the  mountain  127 

O  our  towered  altitudes! 

O  the  lustres  of  our  thrones! 
What!  old  Time  shall  have  his  moods 

Like  Caesars  and  Napoleons; 

Have  his  towers  and  conquerors  forth, 

Till  he,  weary  of  the  toys, 
Put  back  Rameses  in  the  earth 

And  break  his  Ninevehs  and  Troys. 

The  first  two  stanzas  and  the  last  are  my  own:  the  thoughts 
of  the  others  are  Victor  Hugo's.  The  metre  of  the  original  is 
departed  from. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


DREAM-TRYST 

The  breaths  of  kissing  night  and  day 
Were  mingled  in  the  eastern  Heaven: 
Throbbing  with  unheard  melody 
Shook  Lyra  all  its  star-chord  seven: 

When  the  dusk  shrunk  cold,  and  light  trod  shy, 
And  dawn's  grey  eyes  were  troubled  grey; 
And  souls  went  palely  up  the  sky, 
And  mine  to  Lucide. 

There  was  no  change  in  her  sweet  eyes 

Since  last  I  saw  those  sweet  eyes  shine; 
There  was  no  change  in  her  deep  heart 

Since  last  that  deep  heart  knocked  at  mine. 
Her  eyes  were  clear,  her  eyes  were  Hope's, 

Wherein  did  ever  come  and  go 
The  sparkle  of  the  fountain-drops 
From  her  sweet  soul  below. 

The  chambers  in  the  house  of  dreams 

Are  fed  with  so  divine  an  air, 
That  Time's  hoar  wings  f/row  young  therein, 

And  they  who  walk  th<  re  are  most  fair. 


I2S 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  129 

I  joyed  for  me,  I  joyed  for  her, 
Who  with  the  Past  meet  girt  about: 

Where  our  last  kiss  still  warms  the  air, 
Nor  can  her  eyes  go  out. 


AN  ARAB  LOVE-SONG 

The  hunched  camels  of  the  night* 
Trouble  the  bright 
And  silver  waters  of  the  moon. 
The  Maiden  of  the  Mom  will  soon 
Through  Heaven  stray  and  sing, 
Star  gathering. 

Now  while  the  dark  about  our  loves  is  strewn, 

Light  of  my  dark,  blood  of  my  heart,  O  come! 

And  night  will  catch  her  breath  up,  and  be  dumb. 

Leave  thy  father,  leave  thy  mother 

And  thy  brother; 

Leave  the  black  tents  of  thy  tribe  apart! 

Am  I  not  thy  father  and  thy  brother. 

And  thy  mother? 

And  thou — what  needest  with  thy  tribe's  black  tents 

Who  hast  the  red  pavilion  of  my  heart? 

*  Cloud-shapes  observed  by  travellers  in  the  East. 


130  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

BUONA  NOTTE 

Jane  Williams,  in  her  last  letter  to  Shelley,  wrote:  'Why 
do  you  talk  of  never  enjoying  moments  like  the  past?  Are 
you  going  to  join  your  friend  Plato,  or  do  you  expect  I  shall 
do  so  soon?  Buona  Notte.'  This  letter  was  dated  July  6th, 
and  Shelley  was  drowned  on  the  8th.  These  verses  are  sup- 
posed to  be  addressed  to  Jane  by  the  poet's  spirit  while  his 
^fi)dy  is  tossing  on  the  waters  of  Spezzia. 

Ariel  to  Miranda: — Hear 
This  good-night  the  sea- winds  bear; 
And  let  thine  unacquainted  ear 
Take  grief  for  their  interpreter. 

Good-night!  I  have  risen  so  high 

Into  slumber's  rarity, 

Not  a  dream  can  beat  its  feather 

Through  the  unsustaining  ether. 

Let  the  sea-winds  make  avouch 

How  thunder  summoned  me  to  couch, 

Tempest  curtained  me  about 

And  turned  the  sun  with  his  own  hand  out: 

And  though  I  toss  upon  my  bed 

My  dream  is  not  disquieted; 

Nay,  deep  I  sleep  upon  the  deep, 

And  my  eyes  are  wet,  but  I  do  not  weep; 

And  I  fell  to  sleep  so  suddenly 

That  my  lips  are  moist  yet — could 'st  thou  see — 

With  the  good-night  draught  I  have  drunk  to  thee. 

Thou  canst  not  wipe  them;   for  it  was  Death 

Damped  my  lips  that  has  dried  my  breath. 

A  little  while — it  is  not  long — 

The  salt  shall  dry  on  them  like  the  song. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  131 

Now  know'st  thou  that  voice  desolate, — 
Mourning  ruined  joy's  estate, — 
Reached  thee  through  a  closing  gate. 
'Go'st  thou  to  Plato?'  Ah,  girl,  no! 
It  is  to  Pluto  that  I  go. 


THE  PASSION  OF  MARY 

VERSES    IN    PASSION-TIDE 

O  Lady  Mary,  thy  bright  crown 

Is  no  mere  crown  of  majesty; 
For  with  the  reflex  of  His  own 

Resplendent  thorns  Christ  circled  thee. 

The  red  rose  of  this  Passion-tide 

Doth  take  a  deeper  hue  from  thee, 
In  the  five  wounds  of  Jesus  dyed, 

And  in  thy  bleeding  thoughts,  Mary! 

The  soldier  struck  a  triple  stroke, 

That  smote  thy  Jesus  on  the  tree: 
He  broke  the  Heart  of  Hearts,  and  broke 

The  Saint's  and  Mother's  heart  in  thee. 

Thy  Son  w^ent  up  the  angels'  ways. 

His  passion  ended;  but,  ah  me! 
Thou  found'st  the  road  of  further  days 

A  longer  way  of  Calvary: 

On  the  hard  cross  of  hope  deferred 

Thou  hung'st  in  loving  agony, 
Until  the  mortal-dreaded  word 

Which   chills  our  mirth,   spake   mirth   to   thee. 


132  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

The  angel  Death  from  this  cold  tomb 
Of  life  did  roll  the  stone  away ; 

And  He  thou  barest  in  thy  womb 
Caught  thee  at  last  into  the  day, 

Before  the  living  throne  of  Whom 
The  Lights  of  Heaven  burning  pray. 


L'ENVOY 

O  thou  who  dwellest  in  the  day! 

Behold,  I  pace  amidst  the  gloom: 
Darkness  is  ever  round  my  way 

With  little  space  for  sunbeam-room. 

Yet  Christian  sadness  is  divine 
Even  as  thy  patient  sadness  was: 

The  salt  tears  in  our  life's  dark  wine 
Fell  in  it  from  the  saving  cross. 

Bitter  the  bread  of  our  repast; 

Yet  doth  a  sweet  the  bitter  leaven: 
Our  sorrow  is  the  shadow  cast 

Around  it  by  the  light  of  Heaven. 

O  light  in  Light,  shine  down  from  Heaven! 


MESSAGES 

What  shall  I  your  true-love  tell, 

Earth-forsaking  maid? 
What  shall  I  your  true-love  tell, 

When  life's  spectre's  laid? 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  133 

'Tell  him  that,  our  side  the  grave, 

Maid  may  not  conceive 
Life  should  be  so  sad  to  have. 

That's  so  sad  to  leave!' 

What  shall  I  your  true-love  tell, 

When  I  come  to  him? 
What  shall  I  your  true-love  tell — 

Eyes  growing  dim! 

Tell  him  this,  when  you  shall  part 

From  a  maiden  pined; 
That  I  see  him  with  my  heart. 

Now  my  eyes  are  blind.' 

What  shall  I  your  true-love  tell? 

Speaking-while  is  scant. 
What  shall  I  your  true-love  tell, 

Death's  white  postulant? 


'Tell  him— love,  with  speech  at  strife, 

For  last  utterance  saith: 
I,  who  loved  with  all  my  life, 

Love  with  all  my  death.' 


AT  LORD'S 

[t  is  little  I  repair  to  the  matches  of  the  Southron  folk, 

Though  my  owm  red  roses  there  may  blow; 

It  is  little  I  repair  to  the  matches  of  the  Southron  folk, 

Though  the  red  roses  crest  the  caps,  I  know. 

For  the  field  is  full  of  shades  as  I  near  the  shadowy  coast, 


134  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

And  a  ghostly  batsman  plays  to  the  bowling  of  a  ghost, 
And  I  look  through  my  tears  on  a  soundless-clapping  host 

As  the  run-stealers  flicker  to  and  fro, 
To  and  fro: — 

O  my  Hornby  and  my  Barlow  long  ago! 


LOVE  AND  THE  CHILD 

'Why  do  you  so  clasp  me. 

And  draw  me  to  your  knee? 
Forsooth,  you  do  but  chafe  me, 

I  pray  you  let  me  be: 
I  will  be  loved  but  now  and  then 

When  it  liketh  me!' 

So  I  heard  a  young  child, 

A  thwart  child,  a  young  child 
Rebellious  against  love's  arms, 

Make  its  peevish  cry. 

To  the  tender  God  I  turn:— 

Tardon,  Love  most  High! 
For  I  think  those  arms  were  even  Thine, 

And  that  child  was  even  L' 


DAPHNE 

The  river-god's   daughter,— the   sun-god   sought  her, 

Sleeping  with  never  a  zephyr  by  her. 
Under  the  noon  he  made  his  prey  sure, 
Woofed  in  weeds  of  a  woven  azure. 

As  down  he  shot  in  a  whistle  of  fire. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  1,^5 

Slid  off,  fair  daughter!  her  vesturing  water; 

Like  a  cloud  from  the  scourge  of  the  winds  fled  she: 
With  the  breath  in  her  hair  of  the  keen  Apollo, 
And  feet  less  fleet  than  the  feet  that  follow, 

She  throes  in  his  arms  to  a  laurel-tree. 

Risen  out  of  birth's  waters  the  soul  distraught  errs, 
Nor  whom  nor  whither  she  flieth  knows  she: 

With  the  breath  in  her  hair  of  the  keen  Apollo, 

And  fleet  the  beat  of  the  feet  that  follow. 
She  throes  in  his  arms  to  a  poet,  woe's  me! 

You  plucked  the  boughed  verse  the  poet  bears — 

It  shudders  and  bleeds  as  it  snaps  from  the  tree. 
A  love-banning  love,  did  the  god  but  know  it, 
Which  barks  the  man  about  with  the  poet, 
And  muffles  his  heart  of  mortality! 

Yet  I  translate — ward  of  song's  gate !  — 

Perchance  all  ill  this  mystery. 
We  both  are  struck  with  the  self-same  quarrel; 
We  grasp  the  maiden,  and  clasp  the  laurel — 

Do  we  weep  or  we  laugh  more,  Phoebe  mi? 

^His  own  green  lays,  unwithering  bays, 

Gird  Keats'  unwithering  brow,'  say  ye? 
O  fools,  that  is  only  the  empty  crown! 
The  sacred  head  has  laid  it  down 

With  Hob,  Dick,  Marian,  and  Margery. 


136  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

ABSENCE 

When  music's  fading's  faded, 
And  the  rose's  death  is  dead, 

And  my  heart  is  fain  of  tears,  because 
Mine  eyes  have  none  to  shed; 
I  said, 

Whence  shall  faith  be  fed? 

Canst  thou  be  what  thou  hast  been? 

No,  no  more  what  thou  hast! 
Lo,  all  last  things  that  I  have  known, 

And  all  that  shall  be  last. 
Went  past 
With  the  thing  thou  wast! 

If  the  petal  of  this  Spring  be 
As  of  the  Spring  that's  flown, 

If  the  thought  that  now  is  sweet  is 
As  the  sweet  thought  overblown; 
Alone 

Canst  thou  be  thy  self  gone. 

To  yester-rose  a  richer 
The  rose-spray  may  bear; 

Thrice  thousand  fairer  you  may  be, — > 
But  tears  for  the  fair 
You  were 

When  you  first  were  fair! 

Know  you  where  they  have  laid  her, 

Maiden  May  that  died — 
With  the  loves  that  lived  not 


MISCELLANEOUS  POExMS  137 

Strewing  her  soft  side? 
I  cried, 
Where  Has-been  may  hide? 

To  him  that  waiteth,  all  things! 

Even  death,  if  thou  wait! 
And  they  that  part  too  early 

May  meet  again  too  late: — 
Ah,  fate! 
If  meeting  be  too  late! 

And  when  the  year  new-launched 

Shall  from  its  wake  extend 
The  blossomy  foam  of  Summer, 

What  shall  I  attend. 
My  friend! 
Flower  of  thee,  my  friend? 

Sweet  shall  have  its  sorrow, 

The  rainbow  its  rain, 
Loving  have  its  leaving, 

And  bliss  is  of  pain 
So  fain. 
Ah,  is  she  bliss  or  pain? 


TO  W.  M. 

O  TREE  of  many  branches!  One  thou  hast 
Thou  barest  not,  but  grafted'st  on  thee.  Now, 
Should  all  men's  thunders  break  on  thee,  and  leave 
Thee  reft  of  bough  and  blossom,  that  one  branch 
Shall  cling  to  thee,  my  Father,  Brother,  Friend, 
Shall  cling  to  thee,  until  the  end  of  end. 


1^8  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

A  FALLEN  YEW 

It  seemed  corrival  of  the  world's  great  prime, 
Made  to  un-cdge  the  scythe  of  Time, 
And  last  with  stateliest  rhyme. 

No  tender  Dryad  ever  did  indue 
That  rigid  chiton  of  rough  yew. 
To  fret  her  white  flesh  through: 

But  some  god  like  to  those  grim  Asgard  lords, 
Who  walk  the  fables  of  the  hordes 
From  Scandinavian  fjords, 

Upheaved  its  stubborn  girth,  and  raised  unriven, 
Against  the  whirl-blast  and  the  levin. 
Defiant  arms  to  Heaven. 

When  doom  puffed  out  the  stars,  we  might  have  said, 
It  would  decline  its  heavy  head, 
And  see  the  world  to  bed. 

For  this  firm  yew  did  from  the  vassal  leas, 
And  rain  and  air,  its  tributaries, 
Its  revenues  increase, 

And  levy  impost  on  the  golden  sun. 

Take  the  blind  years  as  they  might  run, 
And  no  fate  seek  or  shun. 

But  now  our  yew  is  strook,  is  fallen — yea. 
Hacked  like  dull  wood  of  every  day 
To  this  and  that,  men  say. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  139 

Never! — To  Hades'  shadowy  shipyards  gone, 
Dim  barge  of  Dis,  down  Acheron 
It  drops,  or  Lethe  wan. 

Stirred  by  its  fall — poor  destined  bark  of  Dis! — 
Along  my  soul  a  bruit  there  is 
Of  echoing  images, 

Reverberations  of  mortality: 
Spelt  backward  from  its  death,  to  me 
Its  life  reads  saddenedly. 

Its  breast  was  hollowed  as  the  tooth  of  eld; 
And  boys,  there  creeping  unbeheld, 
A  laughing  moment  dwelled. 

Yet  they,  within  its  very  heart  so  crept, 
Reached  not  the  heart  that  courage  kept 
With  winds  and  years  beswept. 

And  in  its  boughs  did  close  and  kindly  nest 
The  birds,  as  they  within  its  breast, 
By  all  its  leaves  caressed. 

But  bird  nor  child  might  touch  by  any  art 
Each  other's  or  the  tree's  hid  heart, 
A  whole  God's  breadth  apart; 

The  breadth  of  God,  the  breadth  of  death  and  life! 
Even  so,  even  so,  in  undreamed  strife 
With  pulseless  Law,  the  wife, — 


140  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

The  sweetest  wife  on  sweetest  marriage- day, — 
Their  souls  at  grapple  in  mid-way, 
Sweet  to  her  sweet  may  say: 

*I  take  you  to  my  inmost  heart,  my  true!* 
Ah,  fool!  but  there  is  one  heart  you 
Shall  never  take  him  to! 

The  hold  that  falls  not  when  the  town  it  got, 
The  heart's  heart,  whose  immured  plot 
Hath  keys  yourself  keep  not! 

Its  ports  you  cannot  burst — you  are  withstood— 
For  him  that  to  your  listening  blood 
Sends  precepts  as  he  would. 

[ts  gates  are  deaf  to  Love,  high  summoner; 
Yea,  love's  great  warrant  runs  not  there: 
You  are  your  prisoner. 

Yourself  are  with  yourself  the  sole  consor tress 
In  that  unleaguerable  fortress; 
It  knows  you  not  for  portress. 

Its  keys  are  at  the  cincture  hung  of  God; 
Its  gates  are  trepidant  to  His  nod; 
By  Him  its  floors  are  trod. 

And  if  His  feet  shall  rock  those  floors  in  wrath, 
Or  blest  aspersion  sleek  His  path, 
Is  only  choice  it  hath. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  XAl 


Yea,  in  that  ultimate  heart's  occult  abode 
To  lie  as  in  an  oubliette  of  God, 
Or  in  a  bower  untrod, 

Built  by  a  secret  Lover  for  His  Spouse;— 
Sole  choice  is  this  your  life  allows, 
Sad  tree,  whose  perishing  boughs 
So  few  birds  house! 


A  JUDGMENT  IN  HEAVEN 

I  have  throughout  this  poem  used  an  asterisk  to  indicate  the 
caesura  in  the  middle  of  the  line,  after  the  manner  of  the  old 
Saxon  section-point. 

Athwart  the  sod  which  is  treading  for  God  *  the  Poet 
paced  with  his  splendid  eyes; 

Paradise-verdure  he  stately  passes  *  to  win  to  the  Father 
of  Paradise, 

Through  the  conscious  and  palpitant  grasses  *  of  inter- 
tangled  relucent  dyes. 

The  angels  a-play  on  its  fields  of  Summer  *  (their  wild  wings 

rustled  his  guides'  cymars) 
Looked  up  from  disport  at  the  passing  comer,  *  as  they 

pelted  each  other  with  handfuls  of  stars; 
And  the  warden-spirits  with  startled  feet  rose,  *  hand  on 

sword,  by  their  tethered  cars. 

With  plumes  night-tinctured  englobed  and  cinctured  *  of 
Saints,  his  guided  steps  held  on 


142  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

To  where  on  the  far  crystalline  pale  *  of  that  transtellar 

Heaven  there  shone 
The  immutable  crocean  da\vn  *  effusing  from  the  Father's 

Throne. 

Through  the  reverberant  Eden-ways  *  the  bruit  of  his  great 
advent  driven, 

Back  from  the  fulgent  justle  and  press  *  with  mighty  echo- 
ing so  was  given, 

As  when  the  surly  thunder  smites  *  upon  the  clanged  gates 
of  Heaven. 

Over  the  bickering  gonfalons,  *  far-ranged  as  for  Tartarean 

wars, 
Went  a  waver  of  ribbed  fire  *  — as  night-seas  on  phosphoric 

bars 
Like  a  flame-plumed  fan  shake  slowly  out  *  their  ridgy 

reach  of  crumbling  stars. 

At  length  to  where  on  His  fretted  Throne  *  sat  in  the  heart 

of  His  aged  dominions 
The  great  Triune,  and  Mary  nigh,  *  lit  round  with  spears 

of  their  hauberked  minions. 
The  Poet  drew,  in  the  thunderous  blue  *  involved  dread 

of  those  mounted  pinions. 

As  in  a  secret  and  tenebrous  cloud  *  the  watcher  from  the 

disquiet  earth 
At  momentary   intervals   *   beholds   from   its   ragged   rifts 

break  forth 
The  flash  of  a  golden  perturbation,  *  the  travelling  threat 

of  a  witched  birth; 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  143 

Till  heavily  parts  a  sinister  chasm,  *  a  grisly  jaw,  whose 

verges  soon. 
Slowly  and  ominously  filled  *  by  the  on-coming  plenilune, 
Supportlessly  congest  with  fire,  *  and  suddenly  spit  forth 
the  moon: — 

With  beauty,  not  terror,  through  tangled  error  *  of  night- 
dipt  plumes  so  burned  their  charge; 

Swayed  and  parted  the  globing  clusters  *  so, disclosed 

from  their  kindling  marge, 

Roseal-chapleted,  splendent-vestured,  *  the  Poet  there  where 
God's  light  lay  large. 

Hu,  hu!   a  wonder!   a  wonder!   see,  *  clasping  the  Poet's 

glories  clings 
A  dingy  creature,  even  to  laughter  *  cloaked  and  clad  in 

patchwork  things, 
Shrinking  close  from  the  unused  glows  *  of  the  seraphs' 

versicoloured  wings. 

A  Rhymer,  rhyming  a  futile  rhyme,  *  he  had  crept  for  con- 
voy through  Eden-ways 

Into  the  shade  of  the  Poet's  glory,  *  darkened  under  his 
prevalent  rays. 

Fearfully  hoping  a  distant  welcome  *  as  a  poor  kinsman 
of  his  lays. 

The  angels  laughed  with  a  lovely  scorning:  *  —  'Who  has 

done  this  sorry  deed  in 
The  garden  of  our  Father,  God?  *   'mid  his  blossoms  to 

sow  this  weed  in? 
Never  our  fingers  knew  this  stuff:    *  not  so  fashion  the 

looms  of  Eden!' 


144  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

The  Poet  bowed  nis  orow  majesuc,  -^  searcning  that  patch- 
work through  and  through, 

Feeling  God's  lucent  gazes  traverse  *  his  singing-stoling  and 
spirit  too: 

The  hallowed  harpers  were  fain  to  frown  *  on  the  strange 
thing  come  'mid  their  sacred  crew. 

Only  the  Poet  that  was  earth  *  his  fellow-earth  and  his 
own  self  knew. 

Then  the  Poet  rent  off  robe  and  wreath,  *  so  as  a  sloughing 

serpent  doth, 
Laid  them  at  the  Rhymer's  feet,  *  shed  down  wreath  and 

raiment  both, 
Stood  in  a  dim  and  shamed  stole,  *  like  the  tattered  wing 

of  a  musty  moth. 

(The  Poet  addresses  his  Maker) 

'Thou  gav'st  the  weed  2md  wreath  of  song,  *  the  weed  and 

wreath  are  solely  Thine, 
And  this  dishonest  vesture  *  is  the  only  vesture  that  is 

mine; 
The  life  /  textured.  Thou  the  song:  *  my  handicraft 

Vs  not  divine!' 

(The  Poet  addresses  the  Rhymer) 

He  wrested  o'er  the  Rhymer's  head  *  that  garmenting  which 

wrought  him  wrong; 
A  flickering  tissue  argentine  *  down  dripped  its  shivering 

silvers  long: — 
'Better  thou  wov'st  thy  woof  of  life  *  than  thou  didst  weave 

thy  woof  of  song!' 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  145 

Never  a  chief  in  Saintdom  was,  *  but  turnea  him  trom  the 
Poet  then; 

Never  an  eye  looked  mild  on  him  *  'mid  all  the  ang^'  my- 
riads ten, 

Save  sinless  Mary,  and  sinful  Mary  *  — the  Mary  titled 
Magdalen. 

'Turn  yon  robe,'  spake  Magdalen,  *  'of  torn  bright  song, 

and  see  and  feel.' 
They  turned  the  raiment,  saw  and  felt  *  what  their  turning 

did  reveal — 
All  the  inner  surface  piled  *  with  bloodied  hairs,  like  hairs 

of  steel. 

Take,  I  pray,  yon  chaplet  up,  *  thrown  down  ruddied  from 
his  head.' 

They  took  the  roseal  chaplet  up,  *  and  they  stood  aston- 
ished : 

Every  leaf  between  their  fingers,  *  as  they  bruised  it,  burst 
and  bled. 

*See  his  torn  flesh  through  those  rents;  *  see  the  punctures 
round  his  hair, 

As  if  the  chaplet-fiowers  had  driven  *  deep  roots  in  to  nour- 
ish there — 

Lord,  who  gav'st  him  robe  and  wreath,  *  what  was  this  Thou 
gav'st  for  wear?' 

'Fetch  forth  the  Paradisal  garb!'*  spake  the  Father,  sweet 

and  low; 
Drew  them  both  by  the  frightened  hand  *  where  Mary's 

throne  made  irised  bow — 
•Take,  Princess  Mary,  of  thy  good  grace,  *  two  spirits  greater 

than  they  know.' 


146  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  FOEldS 

EPILOGUE  TO 
'A  JUDGMENT  IN  HEAVEN' 

Virtue  may  unlock  hell,  or  even 

A  sin  turn  in  the  wards  of  Heaven, 

(As  ethics  of  the  text-book  go,) 

So  little  men  their  own  deeds  know, 

Or  through  the  intricate  melee 

Guess  witherward  drav/s  the  battle-sway; 

So  little,  if  they  know  the  deed, 

Discern  what  therefrom  shall  succeed. 

To  wisest  moralists  'tis  but  given 

To  work  rough  border-law  of  Heaven, 

V^ithin  this  narrow  life  of  ours. 

These  marches  'twixt  delimitless  Powers. 

Is  it,  if  Heaven  the  future  showed. 

Is  it  the  all-severest  mode 

To  see  ourselves  with  the  eyes  of  God? 

God  rather  grant,  at  Hie  assize. 

He  see  us  not  with  our  own  eyes! 

Heaven,  which  man's  generations  draws. 

Nor  deviates  into  replicas, 

Must  of  as  deep  diversity 

In  judgement  as  creation  be. 

The-re  is  no  expeditious  road 

Tc  pack  and  label  men  for  God, 

An]  save  them  by  the  barrel -load. 

Some  may  perchance,  v/ith  strange  surprise. 

Have  blundered  into  Paradise. 

In  vasty  dusk  of  life  abroad, 

They  fondly  thought  to  err  from  God, 

Nc:  knew  the  circle  that  ihey  trod; 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  147 

And,  wandering  all  the  night  about, 
Found  them  at  mom  where  they  set  out. 
Death  dawned;  Heaven  lay  in  prospect  wide: — 
Lo!  they  were  standing  by  His  side! 

The  Rhymer  a  life  uncomplex, 
With  just  such  cares  as  mortals  vex, 
So  simply  felt  as  all  men  feel, 
Lived  purely  out  to  his  soul's  weal. 
A  double  life  the  Poet  lived. 
And  with  a  double  burthen  grieved; 
The  life  of  flesh  and  life  of  song. 
The  pangs  to  both  lives  that  belong; 
Immortal  knew  and  mortal  pain, 
Who  in  two  worlds  could  lose  and  gain, 
And  found  immortal  fruits  must  be 
Mortal  through  his  mortality. 
The  life  of  flesh  and  life  of  song! 
If  one  life  worked  the  other  wrong, 
What  expiating  agony 
May  for  him,  damned  to  poesy, 
Shut  in  that  little  sentence  be — 
What  deep  austerities  of  strife — 
'He  lived  his  life.'    He  lived  his  life! 


THE  SERE  OF  THE  LEAF 

Winter  wore  a  flapping  wind,  and  his  beard,  disentwined, 

Blew  cloudy  in  the  face  of  the  Fall, 
When  a  poet-soul  flew  South,  with  a  singing  in  her  mouth, 

O'er  the  azure  Irish  parting-wall.  * 

*  Miss  Katharine  Tynan's  visit  to  London,  1889. 


148  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

There  stood  one  beneath  a  tree  whose  matted  greenery- 
Was  fruited  with  the  songs  of  birds; 
By   the  melancholy   water   drooped   the   slender   sedge,   its 
daughter, 
Whose  silence  was  a  sadness  passing  words: 
He  held  him  very  still, 
And  he  heard  the  running  rill, 
And  the  soul-voice  singing  blither  than  the  birds. 

All   Summer   the   sunbeams   drew   the   curtains   from   the 
dreams 
Of  the  rose-fay,  while  the  sweet  South  wind 
Lapped  the  silken  swathing  close  round  her  virginal  repose 
When  night  swathed  folding  slumbers  round  her  mind. 
Now  the  elf  of  the  flower  had  sickened  in  her  bower, 

And  fainted  in  a  thrill  of  scent; 
But  her  lover  of  the  South,  with  a  moan  upon  his  mouth, 
Caught  her  spirit  to  his  arms  as  it  went: 
Then  the  storms  of  West  and  North 
Sent  a  gusty  vaward  forth, 
Sent  a  skirring  desolation,  and  he  went. 

And  a  troop  of  roving  gales  rent  the  lily's  silver  veils, 

And  tore  her  from,  her  trembling  leaves; 
And  the  Autumn's  smitten  face  flushed  to  a  red  disgrace, 

And  she  grieved  as  a  captive  grieves. 
Once  the  gold-barred  cage  of  skies  with  the  sunset's  moulted 
dyes 
Was  splendorously  littered  at  the  even; 
Beauty-fraught  o'er  shining  sea,  once  the  sun's  argosy 
To  rich  wreck  on  the  Western  reefs  was  driven; 
Now  the  sun,  in  Indian  pall, 
Treads  the  russet-amber  fall 
From  the  ruined  trees  of  Heaven, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  i  49 

Too  soon  fails  the  light,  and  the  swart  boar,  night, 

Gores  to  death  the  bleeding  day; 
And  the  dusk  has  no  more  a  calm  at  its  core, 

But  is  turbid  with  obscene  array. 
For  the  cloud,  a  thing  of  ill  dilating  baleful  o'er  the  jftill, 

Spreads  a  bulk  like  a  huge  Afreet 
Drifting  in  gigantic  sloth,  or  a  murky  behemoth, 

For  the  moon  to  set  her  silver  feet; 
For  the  moon's  white  paces. 
And  its  nostril  for  her  traces, 
As  she  urges  it  with  wild  witch  feet. 

And  the  stars,  forlornly  fair,  shiver  keenly  through  tKt  air, 

All  an-aching  till  their  watch  be  ceased; 
And  the  hours  like  maimed  flies  lag  on,  ere  night  hatch  her 
golden  dragon 
In  the  mold  of  the  upheaved  East. 
'As  the  cadent  languor  lingers  after  Music  droops  W  fin- 
gers. 
Beauty  still  falls  dying,  dying  through  the  days; 
But  ah!'  said  he  who  stood  in  that  Autumn  solitude 
'Singing- soul,  thou  art  'lated  with  thy  lays! 
All  things  that  on  this  globe  err 
Fleet  into  dark  October, 
When  day  and  night  encounter,  the  nights  war  dos/m  the 
days. 

'For  the  song  in  thy  mouth  is  all  of  the  South, 
Though  Winter  wax  in  strength  more  and  more. 

And  at  eve  with  breath  of  malice  the  stained  winrfows  of 
day's  palace 
Pile  in  shatters  on  the  Western  floor.' 


150  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

But  the  song  sank  down  his  soul  like  a  Naiad  through  her 
pool, 
He  could  not  bid  the  visitant  depart; 
For  he  felt  the  melody  make  tune  like  a  bee 
In  the  red  rose  of  his  heart: 
Like  a  Naiad  in  her  pool 
It  lay  within  his  soul, 
Like  a  bee  in  the  red  rose  of  his  heart. 

She  sang  of  the  shrill  East  fled  and  bitterness  surceased: — 

'O  the  blue  South  wind  is  musical! 
>nd  the  garden's  drenched  with  scent,  and  my  soul  hath  its 
content. 
This  eve  or  any  eve  at  all.' 
0  1  his  form  the  blushing  shames  of  her  ruby-plumaged  flames 

Flickered  hotly,  like  a  quivering  crimson  snow: 
'And  hast  thou  thy  content?    Were  som.e  rain  of  it  besprent 
On  the  soil  where  I  am  drifted  to  and  fro, 
My  soul,  blown  o'er  the  ways 
Of  these  arid  latter  days, 
Would  blossom  like  a  rose  of  Jericho. 

*I  know  not  equipoise,  only  purgatorial  joys, 

Grief's  singing  to  the  soul's  instrument, 
And  forgetfulness  which  yet  knoweth  that  it  doth  forget; 

But  content — what  is  content? 
For  a  harp  of  singeing  wire,  and  a  goblet  dripping  fire, 

And  desires  that  hunt  down  Beauty  through  the  Heaven 
With  unslackenable  bounds,  as  the  deep-mouthed  thunder- 
hounds 
Bay  at  heel  the  fleeing  levin, — 
The  chaliced  lucencies 
From  pure  holy-wells  of  eyes, 
And  the  bliss  unbarbed  with  pain  I  have  given. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  151 

*Is — O  framed  to  suffer  joys! — thine  the  sweet  without  al- 
loys 
Of  the  many,  who  art  numbered  with  the  few? 
And  thy  flashing  breath  of  song,  does  it  do  thy  lips  no 
wrong, 
Nor  sear  them  as  the  heats  spill  through? 
When  the  welling  musics  rise,  like  tears  from  heart  to  eye^, 

Is  there  not  a  pang  dissolved  in  them  for  thee? 
Does  not  Song,  like  the  Queen  of  radiant  Love,  Hellene, 
Float  up  dripping  from  a  bitter  sea? 
No  tuned  metal  known 
Unless  stricken  yields  a  tone. 
Be  it  silver,  or  sad  iron  like  to  me. 

'Yet  the  rhymes  still  roll  from  the  bell-tower  of  thy  soul, 

Though  no  tongued  griefs  give  them  vent; 
If  they  ring  to  me  no  gladness,  if  my  joy  be  sceptred  sad- 
ness, 
I  am  glad,  yet,  for  thy  content. 
Not  always  does  the  lost,  'twixt  the  fires  of  heat  and  frost, 

Envy  those  whom  the  healing  lustres  bless; 
But  may  sometimes,  in  the  pain  of  a  yearning  past  attain, 
Thank  the  angels  for  their  happiness; 
'Twixt  the  fire  and  fiery  ice, 
Looking  up  to  Paradise, 
Thank  the  angels  for  their  happiness. 

The  heart,  a  censered  fire  whence  fuming  chants  aspire. 

Is  fed  with  oozed  gums  of  precious  pain ; 
And  unrest  swings  denser,  denser,  the  fragrance  from  that 
censer, 

With  the  heart-strings  for  its  quivering  chain. 
Yet  'tis  vain  to  scale  the  turret  of  the  cloud-uplifted  spirit, 

And  bar  the  immortal  \u,  the  mortal  out; 


152  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

For  sometime  unaware  comes  a  footfall  up  the  stair, 
And  a  soft  knock  under  which  no  bolts  are  stout, 

And  lo,  there  pleadeth  sore 

The  heart's  voice  at  the  door, 
"I  am  your  child,  you  may  not  shut  me  out!" 

*The  breath  of  poetry  in  the  mind's  autumnal  tree 

Shakes  down  the  saddened  thoughts  in  singing  showers, 
But  fallen  from  their  stem,  what  part  have  we  in  them? 

"Nay,"  pine  the  trees,  "they  were,  but  are  not  ours." 
Not  for  the  mind's  delight  these  sered  leaves  alight, 

But,  loosened  by  the  breezes,  fall  they  must. 
What  ill  if  they  decay?  yet  some  a  little  way 

May  flit  before  deserted  by  the  gust, 
May  touch  some  spirit's  hair, 
May  cling  one  moment  there, — 
She  turns;  they  tremble  down.    Drift  o'er  them,  dust!' 


TO  STARS 

You,  my  unrest,  and  Night's  tranquillity, 

Bringers  of  peace  to  it,  and  pang  to  me: 

You  that  on  heaven  and  on  my  heart  cast  fire. 

To  heaven  a  purging  light,  my  heart  unpurged  desire; 

Bright  juts  for  foothold  to  the  climbing  sight 

Which  else  must  slip  from  the  steep  infinite; 

Reared  standards  which  the  sequent  centuries 

Snatch,  each  from  his  forerunner's  gracp  who  dies, 

To  lead  our  forlorn  hope  upon  the  skies; 

Bells  that  from  night's  great  bell-tower  hang  in  gold, 

Whereon  God  rings  His  changes  manifold; 

Meek  guides  and  daughters  to  the  blinded  heaven 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  153 

In  (Edipean,  remitless  wandering  driven; 

The  burning  rhetoric,  quenchless  oratory, 

Of  the  magniloquent  and  all-suasive  sky; 

I  see  and  feel  you — but  to  feel  and  see 

How  two  child-eyes  have  dulled  a  firmament  for  me. 

Once  did  I  bring  her,  hurt  upon  her  bed, 
Flowers  we  had  loved  together;  brought,  and  said:^- 
'I  plucked  them;  yester-mom  you  liked  them  wild.' 
And  then  she  laid  them  on  my  eyes,  and  smiled. 
And  now,  poor  Stars,  your  fairness  is  not  fair, 
Because  I  cannot  gather  it  for  her; 
I  cannot  sheave  you  in  my  arms,  and  say:  — 
'See,  sweet,  you  liked  these  yester-eve;  like  them  for  me 
to-day!' 

She  has  no  care,  my  Stars,  of  you  or  me; 

She  has  no  care,  we  tire  her  speedily; 

She  has  no  care,  because  she  cannot  see — 

She  cannot  see,  who  sees  not  past  her  sight. 

We  are  set  too  high,  we  tire  her  with  our  height: 

Her  years  are  small,  and  ill  to  strain  above. 

She  may  not  love  us:  wherefore  keep  we  love 

To  her  who  may  not  love  us — you  and  I? 

And  yet  you  thrill  down  towards  her,  even  as  I, 

With  all  your  golden  eloquence  held  in  mute. 

We  may  not  plead,  we  may  not  plead  our  suit; 

Our  winged  love  must  beat  against  its  bars: 

For  should  she  enter  once  within  those  guarding  bars, 

Our  love  would  do  her  hurt — oh,  think  of  that,  my  Stars! 


154  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 


LINES  FOR  A  DRAWING  OF  OUR 
LADY  OF  THE  NIGHT 

This,  could  I  paint  my  inward  sight, 
This  were  Our  Lady  of  the  Night: 

She  bears  on  her  front's  lucency 
The  stariight  of  her  purity: 

For  as  the  white  rays  of  that  star 
The  union  of  all  colours  are, 

She  sums  all  virtues  that  may  be 
In  her  sweet  light  of  purity. 

The  mantle  which  she  holds  on  high 
Is  the  great  mantle  of  the  sky. 

Think,  O  sick  toiler,  when  the  night 
Comes  on  thee,  sad  and  infinite. 

Think,  sometimes,  'tis  our  own  Lady 
Spreads  her  blue  mantle  over  thee, 

And  folds  the  earth,  a  wearied  thing. 
Beneath  its  gentle  shadowing; 

Then  rest  a  little;  and  in  sleep 
Forget  to  weep,  forget  to  weep! 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  i  s  s 

ORISON-TRYST 

She  told  me,  in  the  morning  her  white  thought 

Did  beat  to  Godward,  like  a  carrier-dove, 

My  name  beneath  its  wing.    And  I — how  long! — 

That,  like  a  bubble  from  a  water-flower 

Released  as  it  withdraws  itself  up-curled 

Into  the  nightly  lake,  her  sighed  name 

So  loosened  from  my  sleepward-sinking  heart; 

And  in  the  morning  did  like  Phosphor  set  it 

To  lead  the  vanward  of  my  orient  soul 

When  it  storms  Heaven;  and  did  all  alone, 

Methought,  upon  the  live  coals  of  my  love 

Those  distillations  of  rich  memory  cast 

To  feed  the  fumes  of  prayer: — oh!  I  was  then 

Like  one  who,  dreaming  solitude,  awakes 

In  sobbing  from  his  dream;  and,  straining  arms 

That  ache  for  their  own  void,  with  sudden  shock 

Takes  a  dear  form  beside  him. 

Now,  when  light 
Pricks  at  my  lids,  I  never  rouse  but  think — 
*Is  't  orison-time  with  her?' — And  then  my  hand 
Presses  thy  letters  in  my  pulses  shook; 
Where,  neighboured  on  my  heart  with  those  pure  lines 
In  amity  of  kindred  pureness,  lies 
Image  of  Her  conceived  Immaculate ; 
And  on  the  purple  inward,  thine, — ah!  thine 
O'  the  purple-lined  side. 

And  I  do  set 
Tryst  with  thy  soul  in  its  own  Paradise; 
As  lovers  of  an  earthly  rate  that  use. 
In  severance,  for  their  sweet  messages 
Some  concave  of  a  tree,  and  do  their  hearts 


156  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Enharbour  in  its  continent  heart — I  drop 

My  message  in  the  hollow  breast  of  God. 

Thy  name  is  known  in  Heaven ;  yea,  Heaven  is  weary 

With  the  reverberation  of  thy  name; 

I  fill  with  it  the  gap  between  two  sleeps, 

The  inter-pause  of  dream:  hell's  gates  have  learned 

To  shake  in  it;  and  their  fierce  forayers 

Before  the  iterate  echoing  recoil, 

In  armed  watches  when  my  preparate  soul 

(A  war-cry  in  the  alarums  of  the  Night) 

Conjoins  thy  name  with  Hers,  Auxiliatrix. 


'WHERETO  ART  THOU  COME?' 

'Friend,  whereto  art  thou  come?'    Thus  Verity; 
Of  each  that  to  the  world's  sad  Olivet 
Comes  with  no  multitude,  but  alone  by  night, 
Lit  with  the  one  torch  of  his  lifted  soul. 
Seeking  her  that  he  may  lay  hands  on  her ; 
Thus:  and  waits  answer  from  the  mouth  of  deed. 
Truth  is  a  maid,  whom  men  woo  diversely; 
This,  as  a  spouse;  that,  as  a  light-o'-love. 
To  know,  and  having  known,  to  make  his  brag. 
But  woe  to  him  that  takes  the  immortal  kiss, 
And  not  estates  her  in  his  housing  life, 
Mother  of  all  his  seed!     So  he  betrays, 
Not  Truth,  the  unbetrayable,  but  himself: 
And  with  his  kiss's  rated  traitor-craft 
The  Haceldama  of  a  plot  of  days 
He  buys,  to  consummate  his  Judasry 
Therein  with  Judas'  guerdon  of  despair. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  157 

SONG  OF  THE  HOURS 

SCENE:  Before  the  Palace  of  the  Sun,  into  which  a  god  has 
just  passed  as  the  guest  of  Hyperion.  Time:  Dawn. 
The  Hours  of  Night  and  Day  advance  on  each  other 
as  the  gates  close. 

MORNING    HOURS 

In  curbed  expanses  our  wheeling  dances 

Meet  from  the  left  and  right; 
Under  this  vaporous  awning 

Tarrying  awhile  in  our  flight, 
Waiting  the  day's  advances, 

We,  the  children  of  light, 
Clasp  you  on  verge  of  the  dawning, 

Sisters  of  Even  and  Night! 

CHORUS 

We  who  lash  from  the  way  of  the  sun 

With  the  whip  of  the  winds  the  thronging  cltmds, 

Who  puff  out  the  lights  of  the  stars,  or  run 
To  scare  dreams  back  to  their  shrouds, 

Or  tiar  the  temples  of  Heaven 
With  a  crystalline  gleam  of  showers; 


EVENING   HOURS 


While  to  flit  with  the  soft  moth,  Even, 
Round  the  lamp  of  the  day  is  ours; 


58  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 


NIGHT    HOURS 


And  ours  with  her  crescent  argentine, 

To  make  Night's  forehead  fair, 
To  wheel  up  her  throne  of  the  earth,  and  twine 

The  daffodils  in  her  hair; 


ALL 


We,  moulted  as  plumes  are. 

From  the  wings  whereon  Time  is  borne; 


MORNING   HOURS 


We,  buds  who  in  blossoming  foretell 
The  date  when  our  leaves  shall  be  torn; 


NIGHT   HOURS 


We,  knowing  our  dooms  are  to  plunge  with  the  gloom's 
car 
Down  the  steep  ruin  of  mom; 


ALL 


We  hail  thee,  Immortal! 
We  robes  of  Life,  mouldering  while  worn. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

NIGHT    HOURS 

Sea-birds,  winging  o'er  sea  calm-strewn 
To  the  lure  of  the  beacon-stars,  are  we, 

O'er  the  foamy  wake  of  the  white-sailed  moon, 
Which  to  men  is  the  Galaxy. 

MORNING  HOURS 

Our  eyes,  through  our  pinions  folden, 

By  the  filtered  flame  are  teased 
As  we  bow  when  the  sun  makes  golden 

Earthquake  in  the  East. 

EVENING    HOURS 

And  we  shake  on  the  sky  a  dusted  fire 

From  the  ripened  sunset's  anther, 
While  the  flecked  main,  drowsing  in  gorged  desire, 

Purrs  like  an  outstretched  panther. 

MORNING   HOURS 

O'er  the  dead  moon-maid 

We  draw  softly  the  day's  white  pall; 
And  our  children  the  Moments  we  see  as 

In  drops  of  the  dew  they  fall, 
Or  on  light  plumes  laid  they  shoot  the  cascade 

Of  colours  some  Heaven's  bow  call; 


^o  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

ALL 

And  we  sing,  Guest,  to  thee,  as 
Thou  pacest  the  crystal-paved  hall! 

We,  while  the  sun  with  his  hid  chain  swings 

Like  a  censer  around  him  the  blossom-sweet  earth, 
Who  dare  the  lark  with  our  passionate  wings, 

And  its  mirth  with  our  masterless  mirth; 

Or — when  that  flying  laughter 
Has  sunk  and  died  away 

Which  beat  against  Heaven's  rafter — 
Who  vex  the  clear  eyes  of  day, 
Who  weave  for  the  sky  in  the  loom  of  the  cloud 

A  mantle  of  waving  rain. 
We,  whose  hair  is  jewelled  with  joys,  or  bowed 

Under  veilings  of  misty  pain; 

We  hymn  thee  at  leaving 
Who  strew  thy  feet's  coming,  O  Guest! 
We,  the  linked  cincture  which  girdles 
Mortality's  feverous  breast, 
Who  heave  in  its  heaving,  who  grieve  in  its  grieving, 

Are  restless  in  its  unrest; 
Our  beings  unstirred  else 

Were  it  not  for  the  bosom  they  pressed. 

We  see  the  wind,  like  a  light  swift  leopard 

Leap  on  the  flocks  of  the  cloud  that  flee, 
As  we  follow  the  feet  of  the  radiant  shepherd 

Whose  bright  sheep  drink  of  the  sea. 

When  that  drunken  Titan  the  Thunder 
Stumbles  through  staggered  Heaven, 

And  spills  on  the  scorched  earth  under 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  i6i 

The  fiery  wine  of  the  levin, 
With  our  mystic  measure  of  rhythmic  motion 

We  charm  him  in  snorting  sleep, 
While  round  him  the  sun  enchants  from  ocean  , 

The  walls  of  a  cloudy  keep. 

Beneath  the  deep  umbers 
Of  night  as  we  watch  and  hark, 

The  dim-winged  dreams  which  feed  on 
The  blossoms  of  day  we  mark. 
As  in  murmurous  numbers  they  swarm  to  the  slum- 
bers 

That  cell  the  hive  of  the  dark; 
And  life  shakes,  a  reed  on 

Our  tide,  in  the  death-wind  stark. 

Time,  Eternity's  fountain,  whose  waters 

Fall  back  thither  from  whence  they  rose, 
Deweth  with  us,  its  showery  daughters. 

The  Life  that  is  green  in  its  flows. 
But  whether  in  grief  or  mirth  we  shower, 

We  make  not  the  thing  we  breed. 
For  what  may  come  of  the  passing  Hour 
Is  what  was  hid  in  the  seed. 
And  now  as  wakes, 

Like  love  in  its  first  blind  guesses, 
Or  a  snake  just  stirring  its  coils, 
Sweet  tune  into  half-caresses, 
Before  the  sun  shakes  the  clinging  flakes 

Of  gloom  from  his  spouting  tresses. 
Let  winds  have  toils 

To  catch  at  our  fluttering  dresses! 
Winter,  that  numbeth  the  throstle  and  stilled  wren, 
Has  keen  frost-edges  our  plumes  to  pare, 


i62  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Till  we  break,  with  the  Summer's  laughing  children, 
Over  the  fields  of  air. 

While  the  winds  in  their  tricksome  courses 

The  snowy  steeds  vault  upon 
That  are  foaled  of  the  white  sea-horses 
And  washed  in  the  streams  of  the  sun. 
Thaw,  O  thaw  the  enchanted  throbbings 

Curdled  at  Music's  heart; 
Tread  she  her  grapes  till  from  their  englobings 
The  melodies  spurt  and  smart! 
We  fleet  as  a  rain, 

Nor  yearn  for  the  being  men  own, 
With  whom  is  naught  beginneth 
Or  endeth  without  some  moan; 
We  soar  to  our  zenith 

And  are  panglessly  overblown. 

Yet,  if  the  roots  of  the  truth  were  bare, 

Our  transience  is  only  a  mortal  seeming; 
Fond  men,  we  are  fixed  as  a  still  despair, 
And  we  fleet  but  in  your  dreaming. 

We  are  columns  in  Time's  hall,  mortals, 

Wherethrough  Life  hurrieth; 
You  pass  in  at  birth's  wide  portals, 
And  out  at  the  postern  of  death. 
As  you  chase  down  the  vista  your  dream  or  your 
love 
The  swift  pillars  race  you  by. 
And  you  think  it  is  we  who  move,  who  move, — 
It  is  you  who  die,  who  die! 
O  firmament,  even 

You  pass,  by  whose  fixture  man  voweth; 
God  breathes  you  forth  as  a  bubble 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  1O3 

And  shall  suck  you  back  into  His  mouth! 
Through  earth,  sea,  and  heaven  a  doom  shall  be 
driven, 

And,  sown  in  the  furrows  it  plougheth. 
As  fire  bursts  from  stubble 

Shall  spring  the  new  wonders  none  troweth. 

The  bowed  East  lifteth  the  dripping  sun, 

A  golden  cup,  to  the  lips  of  Night, 
Over  whose  cheek  in  flushes  run 

The  heats  of  the  liquid  light. 

MORNING   HOURS 

To  our  very  pinions'  ridge 

We  tremble  expectantly; — 
Is  it  ready,  the  burnished  bridge 

We  must  cast  for  our  King  o'er  the  sea? 
And  who  will  kneel  with  sunbeam-slips 

To  dry  the  flowers'  sweet  eyes? 
Who  touch  with  fire  her  finger-tips 

For  the  lamp  of  the  grape,  as  she  flies? 


ALL 


List,   list   to   the   prances,   his   chariot   advances, 

It  comes  in  a  dust  of  light! 
From  under  our  brightening  awning 

We  wheel  in  a  diverse  flight: 
Yet  the  hands  we  unclasp,  as  our  dances 

Sweep  off  to  the  left  and  the  right. 
Are  but  loosed  on  the  verge  of  the  da\vning 

To  join  on  the  verge  of  the  night. 


1 64  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

PASTORAL 

Pan-Imbued 
Tempe  wood, 
Pretty  player's  sporting-place; 

Tempe  wood's 

Solitude's 
Everywhere  a  courting-place. 

Kiss  me,  sweet 

Gipsy  fleet. 
Though  a  kissed  maid  hath  her  red; 

Kisses  grow — 

Trust  me  so — 
Faster  than  they're  gathered! 
I  will  flute  a  tune 

On  the  pipes  of  ivory; 
All  long  noon 

Piping  of  a  melody; 
A  merry,  merry,  merry,  merry, 

Merry,  merry  melody. 
Dance,  ho!  foot  it  so!    Feat  fleets  the  melody f 

Let  the  wise 

Say,  youth  dies; — 
'Tis  for  pleasure's  mending,  Sweet! 

Kisses  are 

Costlier  far. 
That  they  have  an  ending,  Sweet! 

Half  a  kiss's 

Dainty  bliss  is 
From  the  day  of  kiss-no-more; 

When  we  shall, 

Roseal 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  16$ 

Lass,  do  this  and  this  no  more! 
And  we  pipe  a  tune 

On  the  pipes  of  ivory; 
All  long  noon 

Fluting  of  a  melody: — 
A  merry,  merry,  merry,  merry, 

Merry,  merry  melody. 
Dance,  ho!  trip  it  so!    Feat  fleets  the  melody! 

My  love  must 

Be  to  trust, 
While  you  safely  fold  me  close: 

Yours  will  smile 

A  kissing-while. 
For  the  hours  I  hold  you  close. 

Maiden  gold! 

Clipping  bold 
Here  the  truest  mintage  is: 

Lips  will  bear 

But,  I  swear. 
In  the  press  their  vintages! 
I  will  flute  a  tune 

On  the  pipes  of  ivory; 
All  long  noon 

Piping  of  a  melody: — 
A  merry,  merry,  merry,  merry, 

Merry,  merry  melody. 
Dance,  ho!  foot  it  so!    Feat  fleets  the  melody! 


1 66  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

PAST  THINKING  OF  SOLOMON 

Remember  thy  Creator  in  the  days  of  thy  youth,  before 
the  years  draw  nigh  of  which  thou  shalt  say:  They  please 
me  not;  before  the  sun,  and  the  light,  and  the  moon,  and 
the  stars  be  darkened,  and  the  clouds  return  after  the  rain. 

Ecclesiastes. 

Wise-Unto-Hell  Ecclesiast, 
Who  siev'dst  life  to  the  gritted  last! 

This  thy  sting,  thy  darkness,  Mage — 
Cloud  upon  sun,  upon  youth  age? 

Now  is  come  a  darker  thing, 
And  is  come  a  colder  sting. 

Unto  us,  who  find  the  womb 

Opes  on  the  courtyard  of  the  tomb. 

Now  in  this  fuliginous 
City  of  flesh  our  sires  for  us 

Darkly  built,  the  sun  at  prime 
Is  hidden,  and  betwixt  the  time 

Of  day  and  night  is  variance  none, 
Who  know  not  altern  moon  and  sun ; 

Whose  deposed  heaven  through  dungeon-bars 
Looks  down  blinded  of  its  stars. 

Yea,  in  the  days  of  youth,  God  wot. 
Now  we  say:  They  please  me  not. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  167 

A  DEAD  ASTRONOMER 

STEPHEN   PERRY,   S.J. 

Starry  amorist,  starward  gone, 
Thou  art — what  thou  didst  gaze  upon! 
Passed  through  thy  golden  garden's  bars, 
Thou  seest  the  Gardener  of  the  Stars. 

She,  about  whose  mooned  brows 
Seven  stars  make  seven  glows, 
Seven  lights  for  seven  woes; 
She,  like  thine  own  Galaxy, 
All  lustres  in  one  purity:  — 
What  said'st  thou.  Astronomer, 
When  thou  did'st  discover  her? 
When  thy  hand  its  tube  let  fall. 
Thou  found'st  the  fairest  Star  of  all! 

CHEATED  ELSIE 

Elsie  was  a  maiden  fair 

As  the  sun 

Shone  upon: 
Born  to  teach  her  swains  despair 
By  smiling  on  them  every  one; 
Bom  to  win  all  hearts  to  her 
Just  because  herself  had  none; 
All  the  day  she  had  no  care. 
For  she  was  a  maiden  fair 

As  the  sun 

Shone  upon, 
Heartless  as  the  brooks  that  run. 


t68  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

All  the  maids,  with  envy  tart, 
Sneering  said,  'She  has  no  heart.' 
All  the  youths,  with  bitter  smart, 
Sighing  said,  'She  has  no  heart!' 

Could  she  care 
For  their  sneers  or  their  despair 
When  she  was  a  maiden  fair 

As  the  sun 

Shone  upon, 
Heartless  as  the  brooks  that  run? 

But  one  day  whenas  she  stood 

In  a  wood 
Haunted  by  the  fairy  brood, 
Did  she  view,  or  dream  she  viewed 

In  a  vision's 

Wild  misprisions, 
How  a  pedlar,  dry  and  rude 
As  a  crook'd  branch  taking  flesh, 
Caught  the  spirit  in  a  mesh. 
Singing  of — 'What  is't  ye  lack?' 

Wizard-pack 

On  twisted  back, 
Still  he  sang,  'What  is't  ye  lack? 

*Lack  ye  land  or  lack  ye  gold. 
What  I  give,  I  give  unsold; 
Lack  ye  wisdom,  lack  ye  beauty, 

To  your  suit  he 
Gives  unpaid,  the  pedlar  old!* 


MISCELLANEOUS  POExMS 


i6g 


Faciei. 


Elsie. 


Pedlar, 


Elsie. 


Pedlar. 


Elsie. 


Pedlar. 


Beware,  beware!   the  gifts  he  gives 

One  pays  for,  sweetheart,  while  one  lives! 


What  is  it  the  maidens  say 
That  I  lack? 


By  this  bright  day, 
Can  so  fair  a  maiden  lack? 
Maid  so  sweet 
Should  be  complete. 


Yet  a  thing  they  say  I  lack. 

In  thy  pack, — 

Pedlar,   tell— 
Hast  thou  ever  a  heart  to  sell? 


Yea,  a  heart  I  have,  as  tender 
As  the  mood  of  evening  air. 


Name  thy  price! 


The  price,  by  Sorrow! 
Only  is,  the  heart  to  wear. 


Elsie. 


Not  great  the.  price,  as  was  my  fear. 


170 
Fairies. 


Elsie. 


Fairies. 


Elsie. 


Fairies. 


FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 


So  cheap  a  price  was  ne'er  so  dear. 

Beware,  beware, 

O  rash  and  fair! 

The  gifts  he  gives, 
Sweetheart,  one  pays  for  while  one  lives! 

Scarce  the  present  did  she  take, 
When  the  heart  began  to  ache. 


Ah,  what  is  this?    Take  back  thy  gift! 

I  had  not,  and  I  knew  no  lack; 
Now  I  have,  I  lack  for  ever! 


The  gifts  he  gives,  he  takes  not  back. 


Ah!  why  the  present  did  I  take, 
And  knew  not  tb.at  a  heart  would  ache? 


Ache!  and  is  that  all  thy  sorrow? — 
Beware,  beware — a  heart  will  break! 


THE  FAIR  INCONSTANT 

Dost  thou  still  hope  thou  shalt  be  fair, 

When  no  more  fair  to  me? 
Or  those  that  by  thee  taken  were 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  171 

Hold  their  captivity? 
Is  this  thy  confidence?     No,  no; 
Trust  it  not;  it  can  not  ha  so. 

But  thou  too  late,  too  late  shalt  find 

'Twas  I  that  made  thee  fair; 
Thy  beauties  never  from  thy  mind 

But  from  my  loving  were; 
And  those  delights  that  did  thee  stole 
Confessed  the  vicinage  of  my  soul. 

The  rosy  reflex  of  my  heart 

Did  thy  pale  cheek  attire; 
And  what  I  was,  not  what  thou  art, 

Did  gazers-on  admire. 
Go,  and  too  late  thou  shalt  confess 
I  looked  thee  into  loveliness! 

THREATENED  TEARS 

Do  not  loose  those  rains  thy  wet 
Eyes,  my  Fair,  unsurely  threat; 
Do  not,  Sweet,  do  not  so! 
Thou  canst  not  have  a  single  woe, 
But  this  sad  and  doubtful  weather 
Overcasts  us  both  together. 
In  the  aspect  of  those  known  eyes 
My  soul's  a  captain  weatherwise. 
Ah  me!  what  presages  it  sees 
In  those  watery  Hyades. 


172  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

THE  HOUSE  OF  SORROWS  * 


Of  the  white  purity 

They  wrought  my   wedding-dress, 
Inwoven  silverly — 

For  tears,  as  I  do  guess. 
Oh,  why  did  they  with  tears  inweave  my  marriage-dress? 

A  girl,  I  did  espouse 

Destiny,  grief,  and  fears; 
The  love  of  Austria's  house 

And  its  ancestral  years 
I  learned;  and  my  salt  eyes  grew  erudite  in  tears. 

Devote  our  tragic  line — 

One  to  his  rebel's  aim. 
One  to  his  ignorant  brine, 

One  to  the  eyeless  flame: 
Who  should  be  skilled  to  weep  but  I,  O  Christ's  dear  Dame? 


[*  In  the  opening  stanzas  the  Empress  Elizabeth  of  Austria 
addresses  Our  Lady,  then  the  'Dark  Fool'  Death,  and  finally  the 
Son  of  Sorrows,  in  allusion  to  the  griefs  of  her  own  and  her 
husband's  line :  the  shooting  of  Maximilian  of  Mexico,  her  sis- 
ter's burning  at  the  Paris  Bazar  de  la  Charite,  the  drowning  of 
the  Archduke  John  and  of  the  mad  King  of  Bavaria,  and  the 
tragedy  of  the  Crown  Prince  Rudolph.  Her  own  assassination 
was  the  immediate  occasion  of  these  verses  ;  and  the  traditional 
offering  of  her  wedding-wreath  to  a  Madonna-shrine  and  the 
making  of  her  wedding-gown  into  priestly  vestments  elucidate 
other  references  in  the  text.l 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  173 

Give  one  more  to  the  fire, 
One  more  for  water  keep: 

0  Death,  wilt  thou  not  tire? 
Still  Austria  must  thou  reap? 

Can  I  have  plummetless  tears,  that  still  thou  bidd'st  'Weep, 
weep!'? 

No — thou  at  length  with  me 
Too  far.  Dark  Fool,  hast  gone! 

One  costly  cruelty 
Voids  thy  dominion: 
I  am  drained  to  the  uttermost  tear:  O  Rudolph,  O  my  son! 

Take  this  woof  of  sorrows, 
Son  of  all  Women's  Tears! 

1  am  not  for  the  morrows, 

I  am  dead  with  the  dead  years. 
Lo,  I  vest  Thee,  Christ,  with  my  woven  tears! 

My  bridal  wreath  take  thou, 

Mary!    Take  Thou,  O  Christ, 
My  bridal  garment!    Now 

Is  all  my  fate  sufficed, 
And,  robed  and  garlanded,  the  victim  sacrificed. 


II 


The  Son  of  Weeping  heard. 

The  gift  benignly  saw; 
The  Women's  Pitier  heard. 

Together,  by  hid  law. 
The  life-gashed  heart,  the  assassin's  healing  poniard,  draw. 


174  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Too  long  that  consummation 
The  obdurate  seasons  thwart; 

Too  long  were  the  sharp  consolation 
And  her  breast  apart; — 
The  remedy  of  steel  has  gone  home  to  her  sick  heart. 

Her  breast,  dishabited, 

Revealed,  her  heart  above, 
A  little  blot  of  red,— 

Death's  reverent  sign  to  approve 
He  had  sealed  up  that  royal  tomb  of  martyred  love. 

Now,  Death,  if  thou  wouldst  show 
Some  ruth  still  left  in  store, 

Guide  thou  the  armed  blow 
To  strike  one  bosom  more, 
Where  any  blow  were  pity,  to  this  it  struck  before! 


INSENTIENCE 

O  SWEET  is  Love,  and  sweet  is  Lack! 

But  is  there  any  charm 
When  Lack  from  round  the  neck  of  Love 

Drops  her  languid  arm? 

Weary,  I  no  longer  love, 

Weary,  no  more  lack; 
O  for  a  pang,  that  listless  Loss 
Might  wake,  and,  with  a  playmate's  voice, 

Call  the  tired  Love  back! 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  175 

ENVOY 

Go,  songs,  for  ended  is  our  brief,  sweet  play; 

Go,  children  of  swift  joy  and  tardy  sorrow: 
And  some  are  sung,  and  that  was  yesterday, 

And  some  unsung,  and  that  may  be  to-morrow. 

Go  forth;  and  if  it  be  o'er  stony  way, 
Old  joy  can  lend  what  newer  grief  must  borrow: 

And  it  was  sweet,  and  that  was  yesterday, 

And  sweet  is  sweet,  though  purchased  with  sorrow. 

Go,  songs,  and  come  not  back  from  your  far  way: 
And  if  men  ask  you  why  ye  smile  and  sorrow. 

Tell  them  ye  grieve,  for  your  hearts  know  To-day, 
Tell  them  ye  smile,  for  your  eyes  know  To-morrow. 


DEDICATION  OF  NEW  POEMS 

(1897) 
To  Coventry  Patmore 

Lo,  my  book  thinks  to  look  Time's  leaguer  down, 
Under  the  banner  of  your  spread  renown! 
Or  if  these  levies  of  impuissant  rhyme 
Fall  to  the  overthrow  of  assaulting  Time, 
Yet  this  one  page  shall  fend  oblivious  shame, 
Armed  with  your  crested  and  prevailing  Name. 

This  dedication  was  written  while  the  dear  friend  and  great 
Poet  to  whom  it  was  addressed  yet  lived.  It  is  left  as  he  saw 
it — the  last  verses  of  mine  that  were  to  pass  under  his  eyes. 


176 


SIGHT  AND  INSIGHT 

Wisdom  is  easily  seen  by  them  that  love  her,  and  is  found  by 

them  that  seek  her. 
To  think  therefore  upon  her  is  perfect  understanding. 

WISDOM,  vi. 


THE  MISTRESS  OF  VISION 

I 

Secret  was  the  garden; 
Set  i'  the  pathless  awe 
Where  no  star  its  breath  can  draw. 
Life,  that  is  its  warden, 
Sits  behind  the  fosse  of  death.     Mine  eyes  saw  not,  and  I 
saw. 

II 

It  was  a  mazeful  wonder; 
Thrice  three  times  it  was  enwalled 
With  an  emerald — 
Sealed  so  asunder. 
All  its  birds  in  middle  air  hung  a-dream,  their  music 
thralled. 


177 


178  FRAHCIS  THOMPSON'S  P0F;M9 


in 

The  Lady  of  fair  weeping, 
At  the  garden's  core, 
Sang  a  song  of  sweet  and  sore 
And  the  after-sleeping ; 
In  the  land  of  Luthany,  and  the  tracts  of  Elenore. 


IV 

With  sweet-panged  singing, 
Sang  she  through  a  dream-night's  day; 
That  the  bowers  might  stay. 
Birds  bate  their  winging. 
Nor  the  wall  of  emerald  float  in  wreathed  haze  away. 


V 

The  lily  kept  its  gleaming, 
In  her  tears  (divine  conservers!) 
Washed  with  sad  art; 
And  the  flowers  of  dreaming 
Paled  not  their  fervours. 
For  her  blood  flowed  through  their  nervures; 
.And  the  roses  were  most  red,  for  she  dipt  them  in  her  heart. 


VI 

There  was  never  moon, 
Save  the  white  sufficing  woman: 
Light  most  heavenly-human — 
Like  the  unseen  form  of  sound 


SIGHT  AND  INSIGHT  179 

Sensed  invisibly  in  tune, — 
With  a  sun-derived  stole 
Did  inaureole 
All  her  lovely  body  round; 
jLovelily  her  lucid  body  with  that  light  was  interstrewn. 


VII 

The  sun  which  lit  that  garden  wholly, 
Low  and  vibrant  visible, 
Tempered  glory  woke; 
And  it  seemed  solely 
Like  a  silver  thurible 
Solemnly  swung,  slowly. 
Fuming  clouds  of  golden  fire,  for  a  cloud  of  incense-smoke 


VIII 

But  woe's  me,  and  woe's  me. 
For  the  secrets  of  her  eyes! 
In  my  visions  fearfully 
They  are  ever  shown  to  be 
As  fringed  pools,  whereof  each  lies 
Pallid-dark  beneath  the  skies 
Of  a  night  that  is 
But  one  blear  necropolis. 
And  her  eyes  a  little  tremble,  in  the  wind  of  her  own  siehs. 


i8o  FRANCIS  THOiMPSON'S  POEMS 

IX 

Many  changes  rise  on 
Their  phantasmal  mysteries. 
They  grow  to  an  horizon 
Where  earth  and  heaven  meet; 
And  like  a  wing  that  dies  on 
The  vague  twilight-verges, 
Many  a  sinking  dream  doth  fleet 
Lessening  down  their  secrecies. 
And,  as  dusk  with  day  converges, 
Their  orbs  are  troublously 
Over-gloomed  and  over-glowed  with  hope  and  fear  of  things 
to  be. 


There  is  a  peak  on  Himalay, 
And  on  the  peak  undeluged  snow, 
And  on  the  snow  not  eagles  stray; 
There  if  your  strong  feet  could  go, — 
Looking  over  tow'rd  Cathay 
From  the  never-deluged  snow — 
Farthest  ken  might  not  survey 
A\^ere  the  peoples  underground  dwell  whom  antique  fables 
know. 


XI 


East,  ah,  east  of  Himalay, 
Dwell  the  nations  underground; 
Hiding  from  the  shock  of  Day, 
For  the  sun's  uprising-sound: 


SIGHT  AND  INSIGHT  i8i 

Dare  not  issue  from  the  ground 
At  the  tumults  of  the  Day, 
So  fearfully  the  sun  doth  sound 
Clanging  up  beyond  Cathay; 
For  the  great  earthquaking  sunrise  rolling  up  beyond  Cathay. 


XII 

Lend  me,  O  lend  me 
The  terrors  of  that  sound, 
That  its  music  may  attend  me, 
Wrap  my  chant  in  thunders  round; 
While  I  tell  the  ancient  secrets  in  that  Lady's  singing  found. 


XIII 

On  Ararat  there  grew  a  vine; 
When  Asia  from  her  bathing  rose, 
Our  first  sailor  made  a  twine 
Thereof  for  his  prefiguring  brows. 
Canst  divine 
Where,  upon  our  dusty  earth,  of  that  vine  a  cluster  grows? 


XIV 

On  Golgotha  there  grew  a  thorn 
Round  the  long-prefigured  Brows. 
Mourn,  O  mourn! 
For  the  vine  have  we  the  spine?     Is  this  all  the  Heaven 
allows? 


i82  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

XV 

On  Calvary  was  shook  a  spear; 
Press  the  point  into  thy  heart — 
Joy  and  fear! 
All  the  spines  upon  the  thorn  into  curling  tendrils  start. 


XVI 

O  dismay! 

I,  a  wingless  mortal,  sporting 
With  the  tresses  of  the  sun? 
I,  that  dare  my  hand  to  lay 
On  the  thunder  in  its  snorting? 
Ere  begun, 
Falls  my  singed  song  down  the  sky,  even  the  old  Icarian  way. 


XVII 

From  the  fall  precipitant 
These  dim  snatches  of  her  chant 
Only  have  remained  mine; — 
That  from  spear  and  thorn  alone 
May  be  grown 
For  the  front  of  saint  or  singer  any  divinizing  twine. 


XVIII 

Her  song  saiu  that  no  springing 
Paradise  but  evermore 
Hangeth  on  a  singing 
That  has  chords  of  weeping, 


SIGHT  AND  INSIGHT  183 

And  that  sings  the  after-sleeping 
To  souls  which  wake  too  sore. 
'But  woe  the  singer,  woe!'  she  said;  'beyond  the  dead  his 
singing-lore, 

All  its  art  of  sweet  and  sore, 
He  learns,  in  Elenore!" 


XIX 

Where  is  the  land  of  Luthany, 
Where  is  the  tract  of  Elenore? 
I  am  bound  therefor. 


XX 

Tierce  thy  heart,  to  find  the  key; 
With  thee  take 

Only  what  none  else  would  keep; 
Learn  to  dream  when  thou  dost  wake, 
Learn  to  wake  when  thou  dost  sleep; 
Learn  to  water  joy  with  tears, 
Learn  from  fears  to  vanquish  fears, 
To  hope,  for  thou  dar'st  not  despair. 
Exult,  for  that  thou  dar'st  not  grieve; 
Plough  thou  the  rock  until  it  bear; 
Know,  for  thou  else  couldst  not  believe; 
Lose,  that  the  lost  thou  may'st  receive; 
Die,  for  none  other  way  canst  live. 
When  earth  and  heaven  lay  down  their  veil. 
And  that  apocalypse  turns  thee  pale; 
When  thy  seeing  blindeth  thee 


1 84  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

To  what  thy  fellow-mortals  see; 
When  their  sight  to  thee  is  sightless; 
Their  living,  death;  their  light,  most  lightless; 
Search  no  more — 
Pass  the  gates  of  Luthany,  tread  the  region  Elenore." 


XXI 

Where  is  the  land  of  Luthany, 
And  where  the  region  Elenore? 
I  do  faint  therefor. 


XXII 

'When  to  the  new  eyes  of  thee 
All  things  by  immortal  power, 
Near  or  far, 
Hiddenly 

To  each  other  linked  are, 
That  thou  canst  not  stir  a  flower 
Without  troubling  of  a  star; 
When  thy  song  is  shield  and  mirror 
To  the  fair  snake-curled  Pain, 
Where  thou  dar'st  affront  her  terror 
That  on  her  thou  may'st  attain 
Persean  conquest;  seek  no  more, 
O  seek  no  more! 
Pass  the  gates  of  Luthany,  tread  the  region  Elenore, 


SIGHT  AND  INSIGHT  185 

XXIII 

So  sang  she,  so  wept  she, 
Through  a  dream-night's  day; 
And  with  her  magic  singing  kept  she — 
Mystical  in  music — 
That  garden  of  enchanting 
In  visionary  May; 
Swayless  for  my  spirit's  haunting, 
Thrice-threefold  walled  with  emerald  from  our  mortal  morn- 
ings grey. 


XXIV 

And  as  a  necromancer 
Raises  from  the  rose-ash 
The  ghost  of  the  rose; 
My  heart  so  made  answer 
To  her  voice's  silver  plash, — 
Stirred  in  reddening  flash. 
And  from  out  its  mortal  ruins  the  purpureal  phantom  blows. 


XXV 

Her  tears  made  dulcet  fretting, 
Her  voice  had  no  word, 
More  than  thunder  or  the  bird. 
Yet,  unforgetting. 
The  ravished  soul  her  meanings  knew.     Mine  ears  heard 
not,  and  I  heard. 


1 86  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

XXVI 

When  she  shall  unwind 
All  those  wiles  she  wound  about  me, 
Tears  shall  break  from  out  me, 
That  I  cannot  find 
Music  in  the  holy  poets  to  my  wistful  want,  I  doubt  me! 


CONTEMPLATION 

This  morning  saw  I,  fled  the  shower, 

The  earth  reclining  in  a  lull  of  power: 

The  heavens,  pursuing  not  their  path, 

Lay  stretched  out  naked  after  bath, 

Or  so  it  seemed;  field,  water,  tree,  were  still. 

Nor  was  there  any  purpose  on  the  calm-browed  hill. 

The  hill,  which  sometimes  visibly  is 

Wrought  with  unresting  energies. 

Looked  idly;  from  the  musing  wood, 

And  every  rock,  a  life  renewed 

Exhaled  like  an  unconscious  thought 

When  poets,  dreaming  unperplexed. 

Dream  that  they  dream  of  nought. 

Nature  one  hour  appears  a  thing  unsexed. 

Or  to  such  serene  balance  brought 

That  her  twin  natures  cease  their  sweet  alarms, 

And  sleep  in  one  another's  arms. 

The  sun  with  resting  pulses  seems  to  brood, 

And  slacken  its  command  upon  my  unurged  blood. 


SIGHT  AND  INSIGHT  18/ 

The  river  has  not  any  care 

Its  passionless  water  to  the  sea  to  bear; 

The  leaves  have  brown  content; 

The  wall  to  me  has  freshness  like  a  scent, 

And  takes  half-animate  the  air, 

Making  one  life  with  its  green  moss  and  stain; 

And  life  with  all  things  seems  too  perfect  blent 

For  anything  of  life  to  be  aware. 

The  very  shades  on  hill,  and  tree,  and  plain. 

Where  they  have  fallen  doze,  and  where  they  doze  remain. 

No  hill  can  idler  be  than  I ; 

No  stone  its  inter-particled  vibration 

Investeth  with  a  stiller  lie; 

No  heaven  with  a  more  urgent  rest  betrays 

The  eyes  that  on  it  gaze. 

We  are  too  near  akin  that  thou  shouldst  cheat 

Me,  Nature,  with  thy  fair  deceit. 

In  poets  floating  like  a  water-flower 

Upon  the  bosom  of  the  glassy  hour, 

In  skies  that  no  man  sees  to  move, 

Lurk  untumultuous  vortices  of  power, 

For  joy  too  native,  and  for  agitation 

Too  instant,  too  entire  for  sense  thereof. 

Motion  like  gnats  when  autumn  suns  are  low, 

Perpetual  as  the  prisoned  feet  of  love 

On  the  heart's  floors  with  pained  pace  that  go. 

From  stones  and  poets  you  may  know, 

Nothing  so  active  is,  as  that  which  least  seems  so. 


i88  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

For  he,  that  conduit  running  wine  of  song, 

Then  to  himself  does  most  belong 

When  he  his  mortal  house  unbars 

To  the  importunate  and  thronging  feet 

That  round  our  corporal  walls  unheeded  beat; 

Till,  all  containing,  he  exalt 

His  stature  to  the  stars,  or  stars 

Narrow  their  heaven  to  his  fleshly  vault: 

When  like  a  city  under  ocean. 

To  human  things  he  grows  a  desolation, 

And  is  made  a  habitation 

For  the  fluctuous  universe 

To  lave  with  unimpeded  motion. 

He  scarcely  frets  the  atmosphere 

With  breathing,  and  his  body  shares 

The  immobility  of  rocks; 

His  heart's  a  drop-well  of  tranquillity; 

His  mind  more  still  is  than  the  limbs  of  fear, 

And  yet  its  unperturbed  velocity 

The  spirit  of  the  simoom  mocks. 

He  round  the  solemn  centre  of  his  soul 

Wheels  like  a  dervish,  while  his  being  is 

Streamed  with  the  set  of  the  world's  harmonies, 

In  the  long  draft  of  whatsoever  sphere 

He  lists  the  sweet  and  clear 

Clangour  of  his  high  orbit  on  to  roll, 

So  gracious  is  his  heavenly  grace; 

And  the  bold  stars  does  hear. 

Every  one  in  his  airy  soar. 

For  evermore 

Shout  to  each  other  from  the  peaks  of  space. 

As  'thwart  ravines  of  azure  shouts  the  mountaineer. 


SIGHT  AND  Ix\SIGHT  189 

'BY  REASON  OF  THY  LAW 

Here  I  make  oath — 

Although  the  heart  that  knows  its  bitterness 

Hear  loath, 

And  credit  less — 

That  he  who  kens  to  meet  Pain's  kisses  fierce 

Which  hiss  against  his  tears, 

Dread,  loss,  nor  love  frustrate, 

Nor  all  iniquity  of  the  froward  years 

Shall  his  inured  wing  make  idly  bate, 

Nor  of  the  appointed  quarry  his  staunch  sight 

To  lose  observance  quite; 

Seal  from  half-sad  and  all-elate 

Sagacious  eyes 

Ultimate  Paradise; 

Nor  shake  his  certitude  of  haughty  fate. 

Pacing  the  burning  shares  of  many  dooms, 

I  with  stern  tread  do  the  clear-witting  stars 

To  judgment  cite, 

If  I  have  borne  aright 

The  proving  of  their  pure-willed  ordeal. 

From  food  of  all  delight 

The  heavenly  Falconer  my  heart  debars, 

And  tames  with  fearful  glooms 

The  haggard  to  His  call; 

Yet  sometimes  comes  a  hand,  sometimes  a  voice  withal, 

And  she  sits  meek  now,  and  expects  the  light. 

In  this  Avernian  sky, 

This  sultry  and  incumbent  canopy 

Of  dull  and  doomed  regret; 

Where  on  the  unseen  verges  yet,  O  yet. 


190  FRANCIS  THOMPSON^IS  POEMS 

At  intervals, 

Trembles,  and  falls, 

Faint  lightning  of  remembered  transient  sweet — 

Ah,  far  too  sweet 

But  to  be  sweet  a  little,  a  little  sweet,  and  fleet; 

Leaving  this  pallid  trace. 

This  loitering  and  most  fitful  light,  a  space, 

Still  some  sad  space. 

For  Grief  to  see  her  own  poor  face: — 

Here  where  I  keep  my  stand 

With  all  o'er-anguished  feet, 

And  no  live  comfort  near  on  any  hand; 

Lo,  I  proclaim  the  unavoided  term. 

When  this  morass  of  tears,  then  drained  and  firm, 

Shall  be  a  land — 

Unshaken  I  affirm — 

Where  seven-quired  psalterings  meet; 

And  all  the  gods  move  with  calm  hand  in  hand, 

And  eyes  that  know  not  trouble  and  the  worm. 


THE  DREAD  OF  HEIGHT 

//  ye  were  blind,  ye  should  have  no  sin:  but  now  ye  say. 
We  see:  your  sin  remaineth.      John  ix.  41. 

Not  the  Circean  wine 

Most  perilous  is  for  pain: 

Grapes  of  the  heavens'  star-loaden  vine, 

Whereto  the  lofty-placed 

Thoughts  of  fair  souls  attain, 

Tempt  with  a  more  retributive  delight, 

And  do  disrelish  all  life's  sober  taste. 


SIGHT  AND  INSIGHT  191 

'Tis  to  have  drunk  too  well 
The  drink  that  is  divine, 
Maketh  the  kind  earth  waste, 
And  breath  intolerable. 

Ah  me! 

How  shall  my  mouth  content  it  with  mortality? 

Lo,  secret  music,  sweetest  music. 

From  distances  of  distance  drifting  its  lone  flight, 

Down  the  arcane  where  Night  would  perish  in  night. 

Like  a  god's  loosened  locks  slips  undulously: 

Music  that  is  too  grievous  of  the  height 

For  safe  and  low  delight. 

Too  infinite 

For  bounded  hearts  which  yet  would  girth  the  sea! 

So  let  it  be, 

Though  sweet  be  great,  and  though  my  heart  be  small: 

So  let  it  be, 

O  music,  music,  though  you  wake  in  me 

No  joy,  no  joy  at  all; 

Although  you  only  wake 

Uttermost  sadness,  measure  of  delight, 

Which  else  I  could  not  credit  to  the  height, 

Did  I  not  know, 

That  ill  is  statured  to  its  opposite; 

Did  I  not  know. 

And  even  of  sadness  so, 

Of  utter  sadness,  make 

Of  extreme  sad  a  rod  to  mete 

The  incredible  excess  of  unsensed  sweet, 

And  mystic  wall  of  strange  felicity. 

So  let  it  be. 


192  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Though  sweet  be  great,  and  though  my  heart  be  small, 

And  bitter  meat 

The  food  of  gods  for  men  to  eat; 

Yea,  John  ate  daintier,  and  did  tread 

Less  ways  of  heat, 

Than  whom  to  their  wind-carpeted 

High  banquet-hall. 

And  golden  love-feasts,  the  fair  stars  entreat. 

But  ah!  withal. 

Some  hold,  some  stay, 

O  difficult  Joy,  I  pray, 

Some  arms  of  thine. 

Not  only,  only  arms  of  mine! 

Lest  like  a  weary  girl  I  fall 

From  clasping  love  so  high. 

And  lacking  thus  thine  arms,  then  may 

Most  hapless  I 

Turn  utterly  to  love  of  basest  rate; 

For  low  they  fall  whose  fall  is  from  the  sky. 

Yea,  who  me  shall  secure 

But  I,  of  height  grown  desperate. 

Surcease  my  wing,  and  my  lost  fate 

Be  dashed  from  pure 

To  broken  writhings  in  the  shameful  slime: 

Lower  than  man,  for  I  dreamed  higher, 

Thrust  down,  by  how  much  I  aspire. 

And  damned  with  drink  of  immortality? 

For  such  things  be, 

Yea,  and  the  lowest  reach  of  reeky  Hell 

Is  but  made  possible 

By  foreta'en  breath  of  Heaven's  austerest  clime. 


SIGHT  AND  INSIGHT  193 

These  tidings  from  the  vast  to  bring 

Needeth  not  doctor  nor  divine, 

Too  well,  too  well 

My  flesh  doth  know  the  heart-perturbing  thing; 

That  dread  theology  alone 

Is  mine. 

Most  native  and  my  own; 

And  ever  with  victorious  toil 

"When  I  have  made 

Of  the  deific  peaks  dim  escalade, 

My  soul  with  anguish  and  recoil 

Doth  like  a  city  in  an  earthquake  rock. 

As  at  my  feet  the  abyss  is  cloven  then. 

With  deeper  menace  than  for  other  men, 

Of  my  potential  cousinship  with  mire; 

That  all  my  conquered  skies  do  grow  a  hollow  mock. 

My  fearful  powers  retire. 

No  longer  strong, 

Reversing  the  shook  banners  of  their  song. 

Ah,  for  a  heart  less  native  to  high  Heaven, 

A  hooded  eye,  for  jesses  and  restraint. 

Or  for  a  will  accipitrine  to  pursue!  — 

The  veil  of  tutelar  flesh  to  simple  livers  given, 

Or  those  brave-fledging  fervours  of  the  Saint, 

Whose  heavenly  falcon-craft  doth  never  taint, 

Nor  they  in  sickest  time  their  ample  virtue  /iiew. 


194  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

ORIENT  ODE 

Lo,  in  the  sancturaried  East, 

Day,  a  dedicated  priest 

In  all  his  robes  pontifical  exprest, 

Lifteth  slowly,  lifteth  sweetly. 

From  out  its  Orient  tabernacle  drawn, 

Yon  orbed  sacrament  confest 

Which  sprinkles  benediction  through  the  dawn; 

And  when  the  grave  procession's  ceased. 

The  earth  with  due  illustrious  rite 

Blessed, — ere  the  frail  fingers  featly 

Of  twilight,  violet-cassocked  acolyte, 

His  sacerdotal  stoles  unvest — 

Sets,  for  high  close  of  the  mysterious  feast. 

The  sun  in  august  exposition  meetly 

Within  the  flaming  monstrance  of  the  West. 

O  salutaris  hostia, 

Quce  coeli  pandis  ostium! 

Through  breached  darkness'  rampart,  a 

Divine  assaulter,  art  thou  come! 

God  whom  none  may  live  and  mark! 

Borne  within  thy  radiant  ark, 

While  the  Earth,  a  joyous  David, 

Dances  before  thee  from  the  dawn  to  dark. 

The  moon,  O  leave,  pale  ruined  Eve; 

Behold  her  fair  and  greater  daughter* 

Offers  to  thee  her  fruitful  water. 

Which  at  thy  first  white  Ave  shall  conceive! 

*The  earth. 


SIGHT  AND  INSIGHT  19S 

Thy  gazes  do  on  simple  her 

Desirable  allures  confer; 

What  happy  comelinesses  rise 

Beneath  thy  beautifying  eyes! 

Who  was,  indeed,  at  first  a  maid 

Such  as,  with  sighs,  misgives  she  is  not  fair, 

And  secret  views  herself  afraid, 

Till  flatteries  sweet  provoke  the  charms  they  swear: 

Yea,  thy  gazes,  blissful  Lover, 

Make  the  beauties  they  discover! 

What  dainty  guiles  and  treacheries  caught 

From  artful  promptings  of  love's  artless  thought 

Her  lowly  loveliness  teach  her  to  adorn, 

When  thy  plumes  shiver  against  the  conscious  gates  of  mom! 

And  so  the  love  which  is  thy  dower. 

Earth,  though  her  first-frightened  breast 

Against  the  exigent  boon  protest 

(For  she,  poor  maid,  of  her  own  power 

Has  nothing  in  herself,  not  even  love. 

But  an  unwitting  void  thereof), 

Gives  back  to  thee  in  sanctities  of  flower; 

And  holy  odours  do  her  bosom  invest, 

That  sweeter  grows  for  being  prest: 

Though  dear  recoil,  the  tremorous  nurse  of  joy, 

From  thine  embrace  still  startles  coy, 

Till  Phosphor  lead,  at  thy  returning  hour. 

The  laughing  captive  from  the  wishing  West. 

Nor  the  majestic  heavens  less 
Thy  formidable  sweets  approve, 
Thy  dreads  and  thy  delights  confess, 
That  do  draw,  and  that  remove. 


196  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Thou  as  a  lion  roar'st,  O  Sun, 

Upon  thy  satellites'  vexed  heels; 

Before  thy  terrible  hunt  thy  planets  run; 

Each  in  his  frighted  orbit  wheels, 

Each  flies  through  inassuageable  chase, 

Since  the  hunt  o'  the  world  begun, 

The  puissant  approaches  of  thy  face, 

And  yet  thy  radiant  leash  he  feels. 

Since  the  hunt  o'  the  world  begun^ 

Lashed  with  terror,  leashed  with  longing, 

The  mighty  course  is  ever  run; 

Pricked  with  terror,  leashed  with  longing, 

Thy  rein  they  love,  and  thy  rebuke  they  shun. 

Since  the  hunt  o'  the  world  began, 

With  love  that  trembleth,  fear  that  loveth, 

Thou  join'st  the  woman  to  the  man; 

And  Life  with  Death 

In  obscure  nuptials  moveth, 

Commingling  alien  yet  affined  breath. 

Thou  art  the  incarnated  Light 

Whose  Sire  is  aboriginal,  and  beyond 

Death  and  resurgence  of  our  day  and  night; 

From  him  is  thy  vicegerent  wand 

With  double  potence  of  the  black  and  white. 

Giver  of  Love,  and  Beauty,  and  Desire, 

The  terror,  and  the  loveliness,  and  purging, 

The  deathfulness  and  lifefulness  of  fire! 

Samson's  riddling  meanings  merging 

In  thy  twofold  sceptre  meet: 

Out  of  thy  minatory  might. 

Burning  Lion,  burning  Lion, 

Comes  the  honey  of  all  sweet. 


SIGHT  AND  INSIGHT  i97 

And  out  of  thee,  the  Eater,  comes  forth  meat. 

And  though,  by  thine  alternate  breath, 

Every  kiss  thou  dost  inspire 

Echoeth 

Back  from  the  windy  vaultages  of  death; 

Yet  thy  clear  warranty  above 

Augurs  the  wings  of  death  too  must 

Occult  reverberations  stir  of  love 

Crescent,  and  life  incredible; 

That  even  the  kisses  of  the  just 

Go  down  not  unresurgent  to  the  dust. 

Yea,  not  a  kiss  which  I  have  given. 

But  shall  triumph  upon  my  lips  in  heaven. 

Or  cling  a  shameful  fungus  there  in  hell. 

Know'st  thou  me  not,  O  Sun?  Yea,  well 

Thou  know'st  the  ancient  miracle. 

The  children  know'st  of  Zeus  and  May; 

And  still  thou  teachest  them,  O  splendent  Brother, 

To  incarnate,  the  antique  way, 

The  truth  which  is  their  heritage  from  their  Sire 

In  sweet  disguise  of  flesh  from  their  sweet  Mother. 

My  fingers  thou  hast  taught  to  con 

Thy  flame-chorded  psalterion, 

Till  I  can  translate  into  mortal  wire — 

Till  I  can  translate  passing  well — 

The  heavenly  harping  harmony. 

Melodious,  sealed,  inaudible. 

Which  makes  the  dulcet  psalter  of  the  world's  desire. 

Thou  whisperest  in  the  Moon's  white  ear. 

And  she  does  whisper  into  mine, — 

By  night  together,  I  and  she — 


198  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

With  her  virgin  voice  divine, 

llie  things  I  cannot  half  so  sweetly  tell 

As  she  can  sweetly  speak,  I  sweetly  hear. 

By  her,  the  Woman,  does  Earth  live,  O  Lord, 

Yet  she  for  Earth,  and  both  in  Thee. 

Light  out  of  Light! 

Resplendent  and  prevailing  Word 

Of  the  Unheard! 

Not  unto  thee,  great  Image,  not  to  thee 

Did  the  wise  heathen  bend  an  idle  knee; 

And  in  an  age  of  faith  grown  frore 

If  I  too  shall  adore. 

Be  it  accounted  unto  me 

A  bright  sciential  idolatry! 

God  has  given  thee  visible  thunders 

To  utter  thine  apocalypse  of  wonders; 

And  what  want  I  of  prophecy. 

That  at  the  sounding  from  thy  station 

Of  thy  flagrant  trumpet,  see 

The  seals  that  melt,  the  open  revelation? 

Or  who  a  God-persuading  angel  needs, 

That  only  heeds 

The  rhetoric  of  thy  burning  deeds? 

Which  but  to  sing,  if  it  may  be. 

In  worship-warranting  moiety. 

So  I  would  win 

In  such  a  song  as  hath  within 

A  smouldering  core  of  mystery, 

Bi.mmed  with  nimbler  meanings  up 

Than  hasty  Gideons  in  their  hands  may  sup; — 

Lo,  my  suit  pleads 


SIGHT  AND  INSIGHT  199 

That  thou,  Isaian  coal  of  fire, 

Touch  from  yon  altar  my  poor  mouths'  desire. 

And  the  relucent  song  take  for  thy  sacred  meeds. 

To  thine  own  shape 

Thou  round 'st  the  chrysolite  of  the  grape, 

Bind'st  thy  gold  lightnings  in  his  veins; 

Thou  storest  the  white  garners  of  the  rains. 

Destroyer  and  preserver,  thou 

Who  medicinest  sickness,  and  to  health 

Art  the  unthanked  marrow  of  its  wealth; 

To  those  apparent  sovereignties  we  bow 

And  bright  appurtenances  of  thy  brow ! 

Thy  proper  blood  dost  thou  not  give. 

That  Earth,  the  gusty  Msenad,  drink  and  dance? 

Art  thou  not  life  of  them  that  live? 

Yea,  in  a  glad  twinkling  advent,  thou  dost  dwell 

Within  our  body  as  a  tabernacle! 

Thou  bittest  with  thine  ordinance 

The  jaws  of  Time,  and  thou  dost  mete 

The  unstable  treading  of  his  feet. 

Thou  to  thy  spousal  universe 

Art  Husband,  she  thy  Wife  and  Church; 

Who  in  most  dusk  and  vidual  curch, 

Her  Lord  being  hence. 

Keeps  her  cold  sorrows  by  thy  hearse. 

The  heavens  renew  their  innocence 

And  morning  state 

But  by  thy  sacrament  communicate; 

Their  weeping  night  the  symbol  of  our  prayers, 

Our  darkened  search, 

And  sinful  vigil  desolate. 


200  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Yea,  biune  in  imploring  dumb, 

Essential  Heavens  and  corporal  Earth  await; 

The  Spirit  and  the  Bride  say:  Come! 

Lo,  of  thy  Magians  I  the  least 

Haste  with  my  gold,  my  incenses  and  myrrhs, 

To  thy  desired  epiphany,  from  the  spiced 

Regions  and  odorous  of  Song's  traded  East. 

Thou,  for  the  life  of  all  that  live 

The  victim  daily  born  and  sacrificed; 

To  whom  the  pinion  of  this  longing  verse 

Beats  but  with  fire  which  first  thyself  didst  give, 

To  thee,  O  Sun — or  is't  perchance  to  Christ? 

Ay,  if  men  say  that  on  all  high  heaven's  face 

The  saintly  signs  I  trace 

Which  round  my  stoled  altars  hold  their  solemn  place, 

Amen,  amen!  For  oh,  how  could  it  be, — 

When  I  with  winged  feet  had  run 

Through  all  the  windy  earth  about, 

Quested  its  secret  of  the  sun, 

And  heard  what  things  the  stars  together  shout,— 

I  should  not  heed  thereout 

Consenting  counsel  won:  — 

'By  this,  O  Singer,  know  w^e  if  thou  see. 

When  men  shall  say  to  thee:  Lo!  Christ  is  here, 

When  men  shall  say  to  thee:  Lo!  Christ  is  there. 

Believe  them:  yea,  and  this — then  art  thou  seer. 

When  all  thy  crying  clear 

Is  but:  Lo  here!  lo  there! — ah  me,  lo  everywhere!* 


SIGHT  AND  INSIGHT  20i 

NEW  YEAR'S  CHIMES 


What  is  the  song  the  stars  sing? 

{And  a  million  songs  are  as  song  of  one) 
This  is  the  song  the  stars  sing: 

(Sweeter  song's  none) 


{Sweeter  song's  none) 


One  to  set,  and  many  to  sing, 

{And  a  million  songs  are  as  song  of  one) 
One  to  stand,  and  many  to  cling, 
The  many  things,  and  the  one  Thing, 

The  one  that  runs  not,  the  many  that  run. 

The  ever  new  weaveth  the  ever  old, 

{And  a  million  songs  are  as  song  of  one) 

Ever  telling  the  never  told; 

The  silver  saith,  and  the  saith  is  gold, 
And  done  ever  the  never  done. 

The  Chase  that's  chased  is  the  Lord  o'  the  chase, 
{And  a  million  songs  are  as  song  of  one) 

And  the  Pursued  cries  on  the  race; 

And  the  hounds  in  leash  are  the  hounds  that  run. 

Hidden  stars  by  the  shown  stars'  sheen; 

{And  a  million  suns  are  but  as  one) 
Colours  unseen  by  the  colours  seen. 
And  sounds  unheard  heard  sounds  between, 

And  a  night  is  in  the  light  of  the  sun. 


202  FRANCIb  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

An  ambuscade  of  light  in  night, 

(And  a  million  secrets  are  but  as  one) 

And  a  night  is  dark  in  the  sun's  light, 

And  a  world  in  the  world  man  looks  upon. 

Hidden  stars  by  the  shown  stars'  wings, 

(And  a  million  cycles  are  but  as  one) 
And  a  world  with  unapparent  strings 
Knits  the  simulant  world  of  things; 

Behold,  and  vision  thereof  is  none. 

The  world  above  in  the  world  below, 
(And  a  million  worlds  are  but  as  one) 

And  the  One  in  all;  as  the  sun's  strength  so 

Strives  in  all  strength,  glows  in  all  glow 

Of  the  earth  that  wits  not,  and  man  thereon. 

Braced  in  its  own  fourfold  embrace 

{And  a  million  strengths  are  as  strength  of  one) 
And  round  it  all  God's  arms  of  grace. 
The  v^/orld,  so  as  the  Vision  says, 

Doth  with  great  lightning-tramples  run. 

And  thunder  bruiteth  into  thunder, 

{And  a  million  sounds  are  as  sound  of  one) 
From  stellate  peak  to  peak  is  tossed  a  voice  of  wonder, 
And  the  height  stoops  down  to  the  depths  thereunder, 
And  sun  leans  forth  to  his  brother-sun. 


SIGHT  AND  INSIGHT  20.^ 

And  the  more  ample  years  unfold 

(With  a  million  songs  as  song  of  one) 
A  little  new  of  the  ever  old, 
A  little  told  of  the  never  told, 

Added  act  of  the  never  done. 

Loud  the  descant,  and  low  the  theme, 

{A  million  songs  are  as  song  of  one) 
And  the  dream  of  the  world  is  dream  in  dream, 
But  the  one  Is  is,  or  nought  could  seem; 

And  the  song  runs  round  to  the  song  begun. 

This  is  the  song  the  stars  sing, 

{Toned  all  in  time) 
Tintinnabulous,  tuned  to  ring 
A  multitudinous-single  thing 

{Rung  all  in  rhyme). 


FROM  THE  NIGHT  OF  FOREBEING 

AN  ODE  AFTER  EASTER 

In  the  chaos  of  preordination,  and  night  of  our  foreheings. 

SIR  THOMAS  BROWNE. 
Et  lux  in  tenebris  erat,  et  tenchrco  earn  non  comprehenderunt. 

ST.  JOHN. 

Cast  wide  the  folding  doorways  of  the  East, 
For  now  is  light  increased ! 
And  the  wind-besomed  chambers  of  the  air, 
See  they  be  garnished  fair; 


204  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

And  look  the  ways  exhale  some  precious  odours, 

And  set  ye  all  about  wild-breathing  spice, 

JNlost  fit  for  Paradise ! 

Now  is  no  time  for  sober  gravity, 

Season  enough  has  Nature  to  be  wise; 

But  now  disinct,  with  raiment  glittering  free. 

Shake  she  the  ringing  rafters  of  the  skies 

With  festal  footing  and  bold  joyance  sweet. 

And  let  the  earth  be  drunken  and  carouse ! 

For  lo,  into  her  house 

Spring  is  come  home  with  her  world-wandering  feet, 

And  all  things  are  made  young  with  young  desires; 

And  all  for  her  is  light  increased 

In  yellow  stars  and  yellow  daffodils, 

And  East  to  West,  and  West  to  East, 

Fling  answering  welcome-fires, 

By  dawn  and  day-fall,  on  the  jocund  hills. 

And  ye,  winged  minstrels  of  her  fair  meinie. 

Being  newly  coated  in  glad  livery. 

Upon  her  steps  attend, 

And  round  her  treading  dance,  and  without  end 

Reel  your  shrill  lutany. 

What  popular  breath  her  coming  does  out-tell 

The  garrulous  leaves  among! 

What  little  noises  stir  and  pass 

From  blade  to  blade  along  the  voluble  grass! 

O  Nature,  never-done 

Ungaped-at  Pentecostal  miracle, 

We  hear  thee,  each  man  in  his  proper  tongue! 

Break,  elemental  children,  break  ye  loose 

From  the  strict  frosty  rule 

Of  grey-beard  Winter's  school. 


SIGHT  AND  INSIGHT  205 

Vault,  O  young  winds,  vault  in  your  tricksome  courses 

Upon  the  snowy  steeds  that  reinless  use 

In  coerule  pampas  of  the  heaven  to  run; 

Foaled  of  the  white  sea-horses, 

Washed  in  the  lambent  waters  of  the  sun. 

Let  even  the  slug-abed  snail  upon  the  thorn 

Put  forth  a  conscious  horn! 

Mine  elemental  co-mates,  joy  each  one; 

And  ah,  my  foster-brethren,  seem  not  sad — 

No,  seem  not  sad, 

That  my  strange  heart  and  I  should  be  so  little  glad. 

Suffer  me  at  your  leafy  feast 

To  sit  apart,  a  somewhat  alien  guest, 

And  watch  your  mirth, 

Unsharing  in  the  liberal  laugh  of  earth; 

Yet  with  a  sympathy 

Begot  of  wholly  sad  and  half-sweet  memory — 

The  little  sweetness  making  grief  complete; 

Faint  wind  of  wings  from  hours  that  distant  beat, 

When  I,  I  too, 

Was  once,  O  wild  companions,  as  are  you, — 

Ran  with  such  wilful  feet; 

Wraith  of  a  recent  day  and  dead. 

Risen  wanly  overhead. 

Frail,  strengthless  as  a  noon-belated  moon. 

Or  as  the  glazing  eyes  of  watery  heaven. 

When  the  sick  night  sinks  into  deathly  swoon. 

A  higher  and  a  solemn  voice 

I  heard  through  your  gay-hearted  noise; 

A  solemn  meaning  and  a  stiller  voice 

Sounds  to  me  from  far  days  when  I  too  shall  rejoice, 


206  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Nor  more  be  with  your  jollity  at  strife. 

O  prophecy 

Of  things  that  are,  and  are  not,  and  shall  be! 

The  great-vanned  Angel  March 

Hath  trumpeted 

His  clangorous  'Sleep  no  more'  to  all  the  dead — 

Beat  his  strong  vans  o'er  earth,  and  air,  and  sea. 

And  they  have  heard ; 

Hark  to  the  Jubilate  of  the  bird 

For  them  that  found  the  dying  way  to  life! 

And  they  have  heard, 

And  quicken  to  the  great  precursive  word; 

Green  spray  showers  lightly  down  the  cascade  of  the  larch; 

The  graves  are  riven, 

And  the  Sun  cames  with  power  amid  the  clouds  of  heaven! 

Before  his  way 

Went  forth  the  trumpet  of  the  March; 

Before  his  way,  before  his  way 

Dances  the  pennon  of  the  May! 

O  Earth,  unchilded,  widowed  Earth,  so  long 

Lifting  in  patient  pine  and  ivy-tree 

Mournful  belief  and  steadfast  prophecy. 

Behold  how  all  things  are  made  true! 

Behold  your  bridegroom  cometh  in  to  you, 

Exceeding  glad  and  strong. 

Raise  up  your  eyes,  0  raise  your  eyes  abroad! 

No  more  shall  you  sit  sole  and  vidual. 

Searching,  in  servile  pall. 

Upon  the  hieratic  night  the  star-sealed  sense  of  all: 

Rejoice,  O  barren,  and  look  forth  abroad! 

Your  children  gathered  back  to  your  embrace 

See  with  a  mother's  face; 


SIGHT  AND  INSIGHT  207 

Look  up,  O  mortals,  and  the  portent  heed! 

In  very  deed. 

Washed  with  new  fire  to  their  irradiant  birth, 

Reintegrated  are  the  heavens  and  earth; 

From  sky  to  sod, 

The  world's  unfolded  blossom  smells  of  God. 

O  imagery 

Of  that  which  was  the  first,  and  is  the  last! 

For,  as  the  dark  profound  nativity, 

God  saw  the  end  should  be, 

When  the  world's  infant  horoscope  He  cast. 

Qnshackled  from  the  bright  Phoebean  awe, 

In  leaf,  flower,  mold,  and  tree. 

Resolved  into  individual  liberty. 

Most  strengthless,  unparticipant,  inane, 

Or  suffered  the  ill  peace  of  lethargy, 

Lo,  the  Earth  eased  of  rule: 

Unsummered,  granted  to  her  own  worst  smart 

The  dear  wish  of  the  fool — 

Disintegration,  merely  which  man's  heart 

For  freedom  understands. 

Amid  the  frog-like  errors  from  the  damp 

And  quaking  swamp 

Of  the  low  popular  levels  spawned  in  all  the  lands. 

But  thou,  O  Earth,  dost  much  disdain 

The  bondage  of  thy  waste  and  futile  reign, 

And  sweetly  to  the  great  compulsion  draw 

Of  God's  alone  true-manumitting  law. 

And  Freedom,  only  which  the  wise  intend, 

To  work  thine  innate  end. 

Over  thy  vacant  counterfeit  of  death 


2oS  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Broods  with  sott  urgent  oreath 

Love,  that  is  child  of  Beauty  and  of  Awei 

To  intercleavage  of  sharp  warring  pain, 

As  of  contending  chaos  come  again, 

Thou  wak'st,  O  Earth, 

And  work'st  from  change  to  change  and  birth  to  birth 

Creation  old  as  hope,  and  new  as  sight ; 

For  meed  of  toil  not  vain, 

Hearing  once  more  the  primal  fiat  toll: 

'Let  there  be  light!' 

And  there  is  light ! 

Light  fragrant,  manifest, 

Light  to  the  zenith,  light  from  pole  to  pole, 

Light  from  the  East  that  waxeth  to  the  West, 

And  with  its  puissant  goings-forth 

Encroaches  on  the  South  and  on  the  North; 

And  with  its  great  approaches  does  prevail 

Upon  the  sullen  fastness  of  the  height, 

And  summoning  its  levied  power 

Crescent  and  confident  through  the  crescent  hour, 

Goes  down  with  laughters  on  the  subject  vale: 

Light  flagrant,  manifest. 

Light  to  the  sentient  closeness  of  the  breast. 

Light  to  the  secret  chambers  of  the  brain! 

And  thou  up-floatest,  warm,  and  newly-bathed, 

Earth,  through  delicious  air. 

And  with  thine  own  apparent  beauties  swathed, 

Wringing  the  waters  from  thine  arborous  hair; 

That  all  men's  hearts,  which  do  behold  and  see, 

Crow  weak  with  their  exceeding  much  desire, 

And  turn  to  thee  on  fire, 

Enamoured  with  their  utter  wish  of  thee. 


SIGHT  ^NB  INSIGHT  209 

Anadyomene! 

What  vine-outquickening  life  all  creatures  sup, 

Feel,  for  the  air  within  its  sapphire  cup 

How  it  does  leap,  and  twinkle  headily! 

Feel,  for  Earth's  bosom  pants,  and  heaves  her  scarfing  sea; 

And  round  and  round  in  bacchanal  rout  reel  the  swift  spheres 

intemperably! 
My  little-worlded  self!  the  shadows  pass 
In  this  thy  sister-world,  as  in  a  glass. 
Of  all  processions  that  revolve  in  thee: 
Not  only  of  cyclic  Man 
Thou  here  discem'st  the  plan, 
Not  only  of  cyclic  Man,  but  of  the  cyclic  Me. 
Not  solely  of  Mortality's  great  years 
The  reflex  just  appears. 

But  thine  own  bosom's  year,  still  circling  round 
In  ample  and  in  ampler  gyre 
Toward  the  far  completion,  wherewith  crowned 
Love  unconsumed  shall  chant  in  his  own  furnace-fire. 
How  many  trampled  and  deciduous  joys 
Enrich  thy  soul  for  joys  deciduous  still, 
Before  the  distance  shall  fulfil 
Cyclic  unrest  with  solemn  equipoise ! 
Happiness  is  the  shadow  of  things  past, 
Which  fools  still  take  for  that  which  is  to  be! 
And  not  all  foolishly: 
For  all  the  past,  read  true,  is  prophecy, 
And  all  the  firsts  are  hauntings  of  some  Last, 
And  all  the  springs  are  flash-lights  of  one  Spring. 
Then  leaf,  and  flower,  and  fall-less  fruit 
Shall  hang  together  on  the  unyellowing  bough; 
And  silence  shall  be  Music  mute 


I 


2  so  FRANCIS  THOMI^SON'S  i-OEMS 

For  her  surcharged  heart.     Hush  thou! 

These  things  are  far  too  sure  that  thou  should'st  dream 

Thereof,  lest  they  appear  as  things  that  seem. 

Shade  within  shade!  for  deeper  in  the  glass 
Now  other  imaged  meanings  pass; 
And  as  the  man,  the  poet  there  is  read. 
Winter  with  me,  alack! 
Winter  on  every  hand  I  find : 
Soul,  brain,  and  pulses  dead, 
The  mind  no  further  by  the  warm  sense  fed, 
The  soul  weak-stirring  in  the  arid  mind, 
More  tearless- weak  to  flash  itself  abroad 
Than  the  earth's  life  beneath  the  frosi".- scorched  sod. 
My  lips  have  drought,  and  crack, 
By  laving  music  long  unvisited. 
Beneath  the  austere  and  macerating  rime 
Draws  back  constricted  in  its  icy  urns 
The  genial  flame  of  Earth,  and  there 
With  torment  and  with  tension  does  prepare 
The  lush  disclosures  of  the  vernal  time. 
All  joys  draw  inward  to  their  icy  urns. 
Tormented  by  constraining  rime, 
Ane.  there 

With  undelight  and  throe  prepare 
The  bounteous  efflux  of  the  vernal  time. 
Nor  less  beneath  compulsi'  :  Law 
Rebuked  draw 

The  numbed  musics  back  upon  my  heart; 
Whose  yet-triumphant  course  I  know 
And  prevalent  pulses  forth  shall  start. 
Like  cataracts  that  with  thunderous  hoof  charge  the  disband- 
,ig  snow. 


SIGHT  AND  INSIGHT  211 

All  power  is  bound 

In  quickening  refusal  so ; 

And  silence  is  the  lair  of  sound ; 

In  act  its  impulse  to  deliver, 

With  fluctuance  and  quiver 

The  endeavouring  thew  grows  rigid.   Strong 

From  its  retracted  coil  strikes  the  resilient  song. 

Giver  of  spring, 

And  song,  and  every  young  new  thing! 

Thou  only  seest  in  me,  so  stripped  and  bare. 

The  lyric  secret  waiting  to  be  born, 

The  patient  term  allowed 

Before  it  stretch  and  flutteringly  unfold 

Its  rumpled  webs  of  amethyst- freaked,  diaphanous  gold. 

And  what  hard  task  abstracts  me  from  delight, 

Filling  with  hopeless  hope  and  dear  despair 

The  still-born  day  and  parched  fields  of  night. 

That  my  old  way  of  song,  no  longer  fair. 

For  lack  of  serene  care. 

Is  grown  a  stony  and  a  weed-choked  plot, 

Thou  only  know'st  aright. 

Thou  only  know'st,  for  I  know  not. 

How  many  songs  must  die  that  this  may  live! 

And  shall  this  most  rash  hope  and  fugitive. 

Fulfilled  with  beauty  and  with  might 

In  days  whose  feet  are  rumorous  on  the  air. 

Make  me  forget  to  grieve 

For  songs  which  might  have  been,  nor  ever  were? 

Stem  the  denial,  the  travail  slow. 

The  struggling  wall  will  scantly  grow: 


212  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

And  though  with  that  dread  rite  of  sacrifice 

Ordained  for  during  edifice, 

How  long,  how  long  ago! 

Into  that  wall  which  will  not  thrive 

I  build  myself  alive, 

Ah,  who  shall  tell  me  will  the  wall  uprise? 

Thou  wilt  not  tell  me,  who  dost  only  know! 

Yet  still  in  mind  I  keep. 

He  that  observes  the  wind  shall  hardly  sow. 

He  that  regards  the  clouds  shall  hardly  reap. 

Thine  ancient  way!   I  give, 

Nor  wit  if  I  receive; 

Risk  all,  who  all  would  gain;  and  blindly.  Be  it  so. 

'And  blindly,'  said  I?— No! 

That  saying  I  unsay:   the  wings 

Hear  I  not  in  prt^venient  winnowings 

Of  coming  songs,  that  lift  my  hair  and  stir  it? 

What  winds  with  music  wet  do  the  sweet  storm  foreshow! 

Utter  stagnation 

Is  the  solstitial  slumber  of  the  spirit, 

The  blear  and  blank  negation  of  all  life: 

But  these  sharp  questionings  mean  strife,  and  strife 

Is  the  negation  of  negation. 

The  thing  from  which  I  turn  my  troubled  look, 

Fearing  the  god's  rebuke; 

That  perturbation  putting  glory  on, 

As  is  the  golden  vortex  in  the  West 

Over  the  foundered  sun; 

That — but  low  breathe  it,  lest  the  Nemesis 

Unchild  me,  vaunting  this — 

Is  bliss,  the  hid,  hugged,  swaddled  bliss! 


SIGHT  AND  INSIGHT  213 

O  youngling  Joy  carest! 

That  on  my  now  first-mothered  breast 

Pliest  the  strange  wonder  of  thine  infant  lip, 

What  this  aghast  surprise  of  keenest  panging, 

Wherefrom  I  blench,  and  cry  thy  soft  mouth  rest? 

Ah  hold,  withhold,  and  let  the  sweet  mouth  slip! 

So,  with  such  pain,  recoils  the  woolly  dam, 

l^nused,  affrighted,  from  her  yeanling  lamb: 

I .  one  with  her  in  cruel  fellowship, 

Marvel  what  unmaternal  thing  I  am. 

Nature  enough!   Within  thy  glass 

Too  many  and  too  stern  the  shadows  pass. 

In  this  delighted  season,  flaming 

For  thy  resurrection-feast, 

Ah,  more  I  think  the  long  ensepulture  cold, 

Than  stony  winter  rolled 

From  the  unsealed  mouth  of  the  holy  East; 

The  snowdrop's  saintly  stoles  less  heed 

Than  the  snow-cloistered  penance  of  the  seed. 

'Tis  the  weak  flesh  reclaiming 

Against  the  ordinance 

Which  yet  for  just  the  accepting  spirit  scans. 

Earth  waits,  and  patient  heaven. 

Self-bonded  God  doth  wait 

Thrice-promulgated  bans 

Of  his  fair  nuptial-date. 

And  power  is  man's, 

With  that  great  word  of  'Wait,' 

To  still  the  sea  of  tears, 

And  shake  the  iron  heart  of  Fate. 

In  that  one  word  is  strong 


2  14  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

And  else,  alas,  much-mortal  song; 

With  sight  to  pass  the  frontier  of  all  spheres. 

And  voice  which  does  my  sight  such  wrong. 

Not  without  fortitude  I  wait 

The  dark  majestical  ensuit 

Of  destiny,  nor  peevish  rate 

Calm-knowledged  Fate. 

I,  that  no  part  have  in  the  time's  bragged  way, 

And  its  loud  bruit; 

I,  in  this  house  so  rifted,  marred, 

So  ill  to  live  in,  hard  to  leave; 

I,  so  star-weary,  over-warred, 

That  have  no  joy  in  this  your  day — 

Rather  foul  fume  englutting,  that  of  day 

Confounds  all  ray — 

But  only  stand  aside  and  grieve; 

I  yet  have  sight  beyond  the  smoke, 

And  kiss  the  gods'  feet,  though  they  wreak 

Upon  me  stroke  and  again  stroke; 

And  this  my  seeing  is  not  weak. 

The  Woman  I  behold,  whose  vision  seek 

All  eyes  and  know  not;  t'ward  whom  climb 

The  steps  o'  the  world,  and  beats  all  wing  of  rhyme, 

And  knows  not ;  'twixt  the  sun  and  moon 

Her  inexpressible  front  enstarred 

Tempers  the  wrangling  spheres  to  tune; 

Their  divergent  harmonies 

Concluded  in  the  concord  of  her  eyes. 

And  vestal  dances  of  her  glad  regard. 

I  see,  which  fretteth  with  surmise 

Much  heads  grown  unsagacious-grey. 


SIGHT  AND  INSIGHT  215 

The  slow  aim  of  wise-hearted  Time, 
Which  folded  cycles  within  cycles  cloak: 
We  pass,  we  pass,  we  pass;  this  does  not  pass  away, 
But  holds  the  furrowing  earth  still  harnessed  to  its  yoke. 
The  stars  still  write  their  golden  purposes 
On  heaven's  high  palimpsest,  and  no  man  sees, 
Nor  any  therein  Daniel;  I  do  hear 
From  the  revolving  year 
A  voice  which  cries: 
'All  dies; 

Lo,  how  all  dies!  O  seer, 
And  all  things  too  arise: 
All  dies,  and  all  is  born; 

But  each  resurgent  morn,  behold,  more  near  the  Perfect 
Morn.' 

Firm  is  the  man,  and  set  beyond  the  cast 
Of  Fortune's  game,  and  the  iniquitous  hour, 
Whose  falcon  soul  sits  fast, 
And  not  intends  her  high  sagacious  tour 
Or  ere  the  quarry  sighted;  who  looks  past 
To  slow  much  sweet  from  little  instant  sour, 
And  in  the  first  does  always  see  the  last. 


ANY  SAINT 

His  shoulder  did  I  hold 
Too  high  that  I,  o'erbold 
Weak  one. 
Should  lean  thereon. 


FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

But  He  a  little  hath 
Declined  His  stately  path 
And  my 
Feet  set  more  high; 

That  the  slack  arm  may  reach 
His  shoulder,  and  faint  speech 
Stir 
His  unwithering  hair. 

And  bolder  now  and  bolder 
I  lean  upon  that  shoulder, 
So  dear 
He  is  and  near: 

And  with  His  aureole 
The  tresses  of  my  soul 
Are  blent 
In  wished  content. 

Yea,  this  too  gentle  Lover 
Hath  flattering  words  to  move  her 
To  pride 
By  His  sweet  side. 

Ah,  Love!  somewhat  let  be — 
Lest  my  humility 

Grow  weak 
When  Thou  dost  speak. 

Rebate  Thy  tender  suit, 
Lest  to  herself  impute 
Some  worth 
Thy  bride  of  earth! 


SIGHT  AND  INSIGHT  217 

A  maid  too  easily 
Conceits  herself  to  be 
Those  things 
Her  lover  sings; 

And  being  straitly  wooed, 
Believes  herself  the  Good 
And  Fair 
He  seeks  in  her. 

Turn  something  of  Thy  look, 
And  fear  me  with  rebuke, 
That  I 
May  timorously 

Take  tremors  in  Thy  arms, 
And  with  contrived  charms 
Allure 
A  love  unsure. 

Not  to  me,  not  to  me, 
Builded  so  lawfully, 
O  God, 
Thy  humbling  laudl 

Not  to  this  man,  but  Man, — 
Universe  in  a  span; 
Point 
Of  the  spheres  conjoint; 


FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

In  whom  eternally 
Thou,  Light,  dost  focus  Thee!— 
Didst  pave 
The  way  o'  the  wave; 

Rivet  with  stars  the  Heaven, 
For  causeways  to  Thy  driven 
Car 
In  its  coming  far 

Unto  him,  only  him; 
In  Thy  deific  whim 

Didst  bound 
Thy  works'  great  round 

In  this  small  ring  of  flesh; 
The  sky's  gold-knotted  mesh 
Thy  wrist 
Did  only  twist 

To  take  him  in  that  net. — 
Man!  swinging- wicket  set 
Between 
The  Unseen  and  Seen; 

Lo,  God's  two  worlds  immense, 
Of  spirit  and  of  sense, 
Wed 
In  this  narrow  bed; 

Yea,  and  the  midge's  hymn 
Answers  the  seraphim 
Athwart 
Thy  body's  court! 


SIGHT  AND  INSIGHT  219 

Great  arm-fellow  of  God! 
To  the  ancestral  clod 
Kin, 
And  to  cherubin; 

Bread  predilectedly 
O'  the  worm  and  Deity! 
Hark, 
O  God's  clay-sealed  Ark^ 

To  praise  that  fits  thee,  clear 
To  the  ear  within  the  ear, 
But  dense 
To  clay-sealed  sense. 

All  the  Omnific  made 
When,  in  a  word  he  said, 
(Mystery!) 
He  uttered  thee; 

Thee  His  great  utterance  bore, 
O  secret  metaphor 
Of  what 
Thou  dream'st  no  jot! 

Cosmic  metonymy; 
Weak  world-unshuttering  key; 
One 
Seal  of  Solomon! 


2  20  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Trope  that  itself  not  scans 
Its  huge  significance, 
Which  tries 
Cherubic  eyes! 

Primer  where  the  angels  all 
God's  grammar  spell  in  small, 
Nor  spell 
The  highest  too  well! 

Point  for  the  great  descants 
Of  starry  disputants: 
Equation 
Of   creation! 

Thou  meaning,  couldst  thou  see, 
Of  all  which  dafteth  thee; 
So  plain. 
It  mocks  thy  pain. 

Stone  of  the  Law  indeed, 
Thine  own  self  couldst  thou  read; 
Thy  bliss 
Within  thee  is. 

Compost  of  Heaven  and  mire, 
Slow  foot  and  swift  desire! 
Lo, 
To  have  Yes,  choose  No; 


SIGHT  AND  INSIGHT  221 

Gird,  and  thou  shalt  unbind ; 
Seek  not,  and  thou  shalt  find; 
To  eat, 
Deny  thy  meat; 

And  thou  shalt  be  fulfilled 
With  all  sweet  things  unwilled: 
So  best 
God  loves  to  jest 

With  children  small— a  freak 
Of  heavenly   hide-and-seek 
Fit 
For  thy  wayward  wit. 

Who  are  thyself  a  thing 
Of  whim  and  w^avering; 
Free 
WTien  His  wings  pen  thee; 

Sole  fully  blest,  to  feel 
God  whistle  thee  at  heel; 
Drunk  up 
As  a  dew-drop, 

When  He  bends  down,  sun-wise, 
Intemperable  eyes; 

Most  proud. 
When  utterly  bowed, 


222  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

To  feel  thyself  and  be 
His  dear  nonentity — 
Caught 
Beyond  human  thought 

In  the  thunder-spout  of  Him, 
Until  thy  being  dim, 
And  be 
Dead  deathlessly. 

Stoop,  stoop;  for  thou  dost  fear 
The  nettle's  wrathful  spear, 
So  slight 
Art  thou  of  might! 

Rise;  for  Heaven  hath  no  frown 
When  thou  to  thee  pluck'st  down, 
Strong  clod! 
The  neck  of  God. 


ASSUMPTA  MARIA 

Thou  needst  not  make  new  songs,  but  say  the  old. 

—COWLEY. 

'Mortals,  that  behold  a  Woman 

Rising  'twixt  the  Moon  and  Sun; 
Who  am  I  the  heavens  assume?  an 
All  am  I,  and  I  am  one. 


SIGHT  AND  INSIGHT  223 

'Multitudinous  ascend  I, 


Dreadful  as  a  battle  arrayed, 
For  I  bear  you  whither  tend  I; 

Ye  are  I:  be  undismayed! 
I,  the  Ark  that  for  the  graven 

Tables  of  the  Law  was  made; 
Man's  own  heart  was  one;  one,  Heaven; 
Both  within  my  womb  were  laid. 
For  there  Anteros  with  Eros, 

Heaven  with  man,  conjoined  was,- 
Twin-stone  of  the  Law,  Ischyros, 
Agios  Athanatos. 

%  the  flesh-girt  Paradises 

Gardenered  by  the  Adam  new, 
Daintied  o'er  with  dear  devices 

Which  He  loved,  for  He  grew. 
I,  the  boundless  strict  Savannah 

Which  God's  leaping  feet  go  through; 
I,  the  Heaven  whence  the  Manna, 
Weary  Israel,  slid  on  you! 
He  the  Anteros  and  Eros, 

I  the  body.  He  the  Cross; 
He  upbeareth  me,  Ischyros, 
Agios  Athanatos! 

*I  am  Daniel's  mystic  Mountain, 

Whence  the  mighty  stone  was  rolled; 

I  am  the  four  Rivers'  Fountain, 
Watering  Paradise  of  old; 

Cloud  down-raining  the  Just  One  am, 
Danae  of  the  Shower  of  Gold; 


!i24  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

I  the  Hostel  of  the  Sun  am; 
He  the  Lamb,  and  I  the  Fold. 
He  the  Anteros  and  Eros, 

I  the  body,  He  the  Cross; 
He  is  fast  to  me,  Ischyros, 
Agios  Athanatos! 

%  the  Presence-hall  v;here  Angels 

Do  enwheel  their  placed  King — 
Even  my  thoughts  which,  without  change  else, 

CycUc  burn  and  cyclic  sing. 
To  the  hollow  of  Heaven  transplanted, 

I  a  breathing  Eden  spring, 
Where  with  venom  all  outpanted 
Lies  the  slimed  Curse  shrivelling. 
For  the  brazen  Serpent  clear  on 

That  old  fanged  knowledge  shone; 
I  to  Wisdom  rise,  Ischyron, 
Agion  Athanaton! 

Then  commanded  and  spake  to  me 
He  who  framed  all  things  that  be; 
And  my  Maker  entered  through  me, 

In  my  tent  His  rest  took  He. 
Lo!  He  standeth.  Spouse  and  Brother, 

I  to  Him,  and  He  to  me, 
Who  upraised  me  where  my  mother 
Fell,  beneath  the  apple-tree. 
Risen  'twixt  Anteros  and  Eros, 

Blood  and  Water,  Moon  and  Sun, 
He  upbears  me,  He  Ischyros, 
I  bear  Him,  the  At/ianafonf 


SIGHT  AND  INSIGHT  225 

Where  is  laid  the  Lord  arisen? 

In  the  light  we  walk  in  gloom; 
Though  the  Sun  has  burst  his  prison, 

We  know  not  his  biding-room. 
Tell  us  where  the  Lord  sojoumeth, 

For  we  find  an  empty  tomb. 
Whence  He  sprung,  there  He  returneth. 
Mystic  Sim, — the  Virgin's  Womb.' 
Hidden  Sun,  His  beams  so  near  us, 

Cloud-enpillared  as  He  was 

From  of  old,  there  He,  Ischyros, 

Waits  our  search,  Athanatos. 

Who  is  She,  in  candid  vesture, 

Rushing  up  from  out  the  brine? 
Treading  with  resilient  gesture 

Air,  and  with  that  Cup  divine? 
She  in  us  and  we  in  her  are, 

Beating  Godward:  all  that  pine, 
Lo,  a  wonder  and  a  terror — 

The  Sim  hath  blushed  the  Sea  to  Wine! 
He  the  Anteros  and  Eros, 

She  the  Bride  and  Spirit;  for 
Now  the  days  of  promise  near  us. 
And  the  Sea  shall  be  no  more. 

Open  wide  thy  gates,  O  Virgin, 

That  the  King  may  enter  thee! 
At  all  gates  the  clangours  gurge  in, 

God's  paludament  lightens,  see! 
Camp  of  Angels!  Weil  we  even 

Of  this  thing  may  doubtful  be, — 


226  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

If  thou  art  assumed  to  Heaven, 
Or  is  Heaven  assumed  to  thee! 

Consummatum.  Christ  the  promised, 

Thy  maiden  realm,  is  won,  O  Strong! 
Since  to  such  sweet  Kingdom  comest, 
Remember  me,  poor  Thief  of  Song! 

Cadent  fails  the  stars  along: — 
Mortals,  that  behold  a  woman 

Rising  'twixt  the  Moon  and  Sun; 
Who  am  I  the  heavens  assume?  an 

All  am  I,  and  I  am  one. 


CARMEN  GENESIS 


Sing  how  the  uncreated  Light 
Moved  first  upon  the  deep  and  night, 

And,  at  Its  jiat  lux, 
Created  light  unfurled,  to  be 
God's  pinions — stirred  perpetually 

In  flux  and  in  reflux. 

From  light  create,  and  the  vexed  ooze, 
God  shaped  to  potency  and  thews 

All  things  we  see,  and  all 
Which  lessen,  beyond  human  mark, 
Into  the  spaces  Man  calls  dark 

Because  his  day  is  small. 


SIGHT  AND  INSIGHT  227 

Far-storied,  lanterned  with  the  skies, 
All  Nature,  magic-palace-wise, 

Did  from  the  waters  come: 
The  angelic  singing-masons  knew 
How  many  centuried  centuries  through 

The  awful  courses  clomb. 

The  regent  light  his  strong  decree 
Then  laid  upon  the  snarling  sea; 

Shook  all  its  wallowing  girth 
The  shaggy  brute,  and  did  (for  wrath 
Low  bellowing  in  its  chafed  path) 

Sullen  disglut  the  Earth. 

Meanwhile  the  universal  light 
Broke  itself  into  bounds;  and  Night 

And  Day  were  two,  yet  one: 
Dividual  splendour  did  begin 
Its  procreant  task,  and,  globing,  spin 

In  moon,  and  stars,  and  sun. 

With  interspheral  counterdance 
Consenting  contraries  advance. 

And  plan  is  hid  for  plan: 
In  roaring  harmonies  would  burst 
The  thunder's  throat;   the  heavens,  uncurst, 

Restlessly  steady  ran. 

All  day  Earth  waded  in  the  sun. 
Free-bosomed;  and,  when  Night  begun, 
Spelt  in  the  secret  stars. 


228  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Day  unto  Day  did  utter  speech, 
Night  unto  Night  the  knowledge  teach 
Barred  in  its  golden  bars. 

And,  last,  Man's  self,  the  little  world 
"Where  was  Creation's  semblance  furled, 

Rose  at  the  linking  nod: 
For  the  first  world,  the  moon  and  sun 
Swung  orbed.  That  human  second  one 

Was  dark,  and  waited  God. 

His  locks  He  spread  upon  the  breeze, 
His  feet  He  lifted  on  the  seas. 

Into  His  worlds  He  came: 
Man  made  confession:  'There  is  Light!* 
And  named,  while  Nature  to  its  height 

Quailed,  the  enormous  Name. 


II 


Poet!  still,  still  thou  dost  rehearse, 
In  the  great  fiat  of  thy  Verse, 

Creation's  primal  plot; 
And  what  thy  Maker  in  the  whole 
Worked,  little  maker,  in  thy  soul 

Thou  work'st,  and  men  know  not. 

Thine  intellect,  a  luminous  voice, 
Compulsive  moved  above  the  noise 

Of  thy  still-fluctuous  sense; 
And  Song,  a  water-child  like  Earth, 
Stands  with  feet  sea-washed,  a  wild  birth 

Amid  their  subsidence. 


SIGHT  AND  INSIGHT  229 

Bold  copyist!  who  dost  relimn 

The  traits,  in  man's  gross  mind  grown  dim, 

Of  the  first  Masterpiece — 
Re-marking  all  in  thy  one  Day: — 
God  give  thee  Sabbath  to  repay 

Thy  sad  work  with  full  peace! 

Still  Nature,  to  the  clang  of  doom, 
Thy  Verse  rebeareth  in  her  womb; 

Thou  makest  all  things  new, 
Elias,  when  thou  comest!  yea, 
Mak'st  straight  the  intelligential  way 

For  God  to  pace  into. 

His  locks  perturb  man's  eddying  thought, 
His  feet  man's  surgy  breast  have  sought, 

To  man,  His  World,  He  came; 
Man  makes  confession:  'There  is  light!* 
And  names,  while  Being  to  its  height 

Rocks,  the  desired  Name. 


Ill 


God!  if  not  yet  the  royal  siege 
Of  Thee,  my  terrible  sweet  Liege, 

Hath  shook  my  soul  to  fall; 
If,  'gainst  Thy  great  investment,  still 
Some  broken  bands  of  rebel  Will 

Do  man  the  desperate  wall; 


230  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Yet,  yet,  Thy  graciousness!  I  tread, 

All  quick,  through  tribes  of  moving  dead- 

Whose  life's  a  sepulchre 
Sealed  with  the  dull  stone  of  a  heart 
No  angel  can  roll  round.  I  start, 

Thy  sercets  lie  so  bare! 

With  beautiful  importunacy 

All  things  plead,  'We  are  fair!'  To  me 

Thy  world's  a  morning  haunt, 
A  bride  whose  zone  no  man  hath  slipt 
But  I,  with  baptism  still  bedript 

Of  the  prime  water's  font. 


AD  CASTITATEM 

Through  thee.  Virginity,  endure 
The  stars,  most  integral  and  pure, 

And  ever  contemplate 

Themselves  inviolate 

In  waters,  and  do  love  unknown 
Beauty  they  dream  not  is  their  own! 
Through  thee  the  waters  bare 
Their  bossoms  to  the  air, 

And  with  confession  never  done 

Admit  the  sacerdotal  sun, 
Absolved  eternally 
By  his  asperging  eye. 


SIGHT  AND  INSIGHT  231 

To  tread  the  floor  of  lofty  souls, 
With  thee  Love  mingles  aureoles; 

Who  walk  his  mountain-peak 

Thy  sister-hand  must  seek. 

A  hymen  all  unguessed  of  men 
In  dreams  thou  givest  to  my  ken; 

For  lacking  of  like  mate, 

Eternally  frustrate: 

Where,  that  the  soul  of  either  spouse 
Securelier  clasp  in  either's  house. 

They  never  breach  at  all 

Their  walls  corporeal. 

This  was  the  secret  of  the  great 
And  primal  Paradisal  state, 

Which  Adam  and  which  Eve 

Might  not  again  retrieve. 

Yet  hast  thou  toward  my  vision  taught 
A  way  to  draw  in  vernal  thought. 

Not  all  too  far  from  that 

Great  Paradisal  state, 

Which  for  that  earthy  men  might  wrong, 
Were't  uttered  in  this  earthless  song, 

Thou  layest  cold  finger-tips 

Upon  my  histed  lips. 


232  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

But  thou,  who  knowest  the  hidden  thing  ■ 

Thou  hast  instructed  me  to  sing, 

Teach  Love  the  way  to  be 

A  new  Virginity! 

Do  thou  with  thy  protecting  hand 
Shelter  the  flame  thy  breath  has  fanned; 

Let  my  heart's  reddest  glow 

Be  but  as  sun-flushed  snow. 

And  if  they  say  that  snow  is  cold, 
O  Chastity,  must  they  be  told 

The  hand  that's  chafed  with  snow 

Takes  a  redoubled  glow? — 

That  extreme  cold  like  heat  doth  sear? 
O  to  this  heart  of  love  draw  near, 

And  feel  how  scorching  rise 

Its  white-cold  purities! 

Life,  ancient  and  o'er-childed  nurse, 
To  turn  my  thirsting  mouth  averse, 

Her  breast  embittereth 

With  wry  foretaste  of  death- 

But  thou,  sweet  Lady  Chastity, 

Thou,  and  thy  brother  Love  with  thee, 

Upon  her  lap  may'st  still 

Sustain  me,  if  thou  will. 


SIGHT  AND  INSIGHT  233 

Out  of  the  terrors  of  the  tomb. 

And  unclean  shapes  that  haunt  sleep's  gloom, 

Yet,  yet  I  call  on  thee, — 

'Abandon  thou  not  me!' 

Now  sung  is  all  the  singing  of  this  chant. 

Lord,  Lord,  be  nigh  unto  me  in  my  want! 

For  to  the  idols  of  the  Gentiles  I 

Will  never  make  me  an  hierophant:  — 

Their  false-fair  gods  of  gold  and  ivory, 

Which  have  a  mouth,  nor  any  speech  thereby, 

Save  such  as  soundeth  from  the  throat  of  hell 

The  aboriginal  lie; 

And  eyes,  nor  any  seeing  in  the  light, — 

Gods  of  the  obscene  night. 

To  whom  the  darkness  is  for  diadem. 

Let  th«n  that  serve  them  be  made  like  to  them, 

Yea,  like  to  him  who  fell 

Shattered  in  Gaza,  as  the  Hebrews  tell. 

Before  the  simple  presence  of  the  Ark. 

My  singing  is  gone  out  upon  the  dark. 


.  THE  AFTER  WOMAN 

Daughter  of  the  ancient  Eve, 

We  know  the  gifts  ye  gave — and  give. 

Who  knows  the  gifts  which  you  shall  give, 

Daughter  of  the  newer  Eve? 

You,  if  my  soul  be  augur,  you 

Shall — O  what  shall  you  not,  Sweet,  do? 


234  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

The  celestial  traitress  play, 

And  all  mankind  to  bliss  betray; 

With  sacrosanct  cajoleries 

And  starry  treachery  of  your  eyes, 

Tempt  us  back  to  Paradise! 

Make  heavenly  trespass; — ay,  press  in 

Where  faint  the  fiedge-foot  seraphin, 

Blest  fool!  Be  ensign  of  our  wars. 

And  shame  us  all  to  warriors! 

Unbanner  your  bright  locks, — advance, 

Gird,  their  gilded  puissance 

I'  the  mystic  vaward,  and  draw  on 

After  the  lovely  gonfalon 

Us  to  out-folly  the  excess 

Of  your  sweet  foolhardiness; 

To  adventure  like  intense 

Assault  against  Omnipotence! 

Give  me  song,  as  She  is,  new, 

Earth  should  turn  in  time  thereto! 

New,  and  new,  and  thrice  so  new, 

All  old  sweets.  New  Sweet,  meant  you! 

Fair,  I  had  a  dream  of  thee, 

When  my  young  heart  beat  prophecy, 

And  in  apparition  elate 

Thy  little  breasts  knew  waxed  great. 

Sister  of  the  Canticle, 

And  thee  for  God  grown  marriageable. 

How  my  desire  desired  your  day. 
That,  wheeled  in  rumour  on  its  way, 
Shook  me  thus  with  presentience !  Then 
Eden's  lopped  tree  shall  shoot  again: 


SIGHT  AND  INSIGHT  235 

For  who  Christ's  eyes  shall  miss,  with  those 
Eyes  for  evident  nuncios? 
Or  who  be  tardy  to  His  call 
In  your  accents  augural? 
Who  shall  not  feel  the  Heavens  hid 
Impend,  at  tremble  of  your  lid, 
And  divine  advent  shine  avowed 
Under  that  dim  and  lucid  cloud; 
Yea,  'fore  the  silver  apocalypse, 
Fail,  at  the  unsealing  of  your  lips? 
When  to  love  you  is  (O  Christ's  Spouse!) 
To  love  the  beauty  of  His  house; 
Then  come  the  Isaian  days;  the  old 
Shall  dream;  and  our  young  men  behold 
Vision — yea,  the  vision  of  Thabor-mount, 
Which  none  to  other  shall  recount, 
Because  in  all  men's  hearts  shall  be 
The  seeing  and  the  prophecy. 
For  ended  is  the  Mystery  Play, 
Wlien  Christ  is  life,  and  you  the  way ; 
When  Egypt's  spoils  are  Israel's  right, 
And  Day  fulfils  the  married  arms  of  Night. 
But  here  my  lips  are  still. 
Until 

You  and  the  hour  shall  be  revealed, 
This  song  is  sung  and  sung  not,  and  its  words  are 
sealed. 


236  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

GRACE  OF  THE  WAY 

*My  brother!'  spake  she  to  the  sun; 

The  kindred  kisses  of  the  stars 
Were  hers;  her  feet  were  set  upon 

The  moon.    If  slumber  solved  the  bars 

Of  sense,  or  sense  transpicuous  grovm 

Fulfilled  seeing  unto  sight, 
I  know  not;  nor  if  'twas  my  own 

Ingathered  self  that  made  her  night. 

The  windy  trammel  of  her  dress. 

Her  blown  locks,  took  my  soul  in  mesh; 

God's  breath  they  spake,  with  visibleness 
That  stirred  the  raiment  of  her  flesh: 

And  sensible,  as  her  blown  locks  were, 
Beyond  the  precincts  of  her  form 

I  felt  the  woman  flow  from  her — 
A  calm  of  intempestuous  storm. 

I  failed  against  the  affluent  tide; 

Out  of  this  abject  earth  of  me 
I  was  translated  and  enskied 

Into  the  heavenly-regioned  She. 

Now  of  that  vision  I  bereaven 

This  knowledge  keep,  that  may  not  dim:- 
Short  arm  needs  man  to  reach  to  Heaven, 

So  ready  is  Heaven  to  stoop  to  him; 


SIGHT  AND  INSIGHT  237 

Which  sets,  to  measure  of  man's  feet, 

No  aUen  Tree  for  trysting-place ; 
And  who  can  read,  may  read  the  sweet 

Direction  in  his  Lady's  face. 

And  pass  and  pass  the  daily  crowd, 

Unwares,  occulted  Paradise; 
Love  the  lost  plot  cries  silver-loud, 

Nor  any  know  the  tongue  he  cries. 

The  light  is  in  the  darkness,  and 

The  darkness  doth  not  comprehend: 
God  hath  no  haste;  and  God's  sons  stand 

Yet  a  day,  tarrying  for  the  end. 

Dishonoured  Rahab  still  hath  hid. 

Yea  still,  within  her  house  of  shame, 
The  messengers  by  Jesus  bid 

Forerun  the  coming  of  His  Name. 

The  Word  was  flesh,  and  crucified, 

From  the  beginning,  and  blasphemed: 
Its  profaned  raiment  men  divide, 

Damned  by  what,  reverenced,  had  redeemed. 

Thy  Lady,  was  thy  heart  not  blind, 

One  hour  gave  to  thy  witless  trust 
The  key  thou  go'st  about  to  find; 

And  thou  hast  dropped  it  in  the  dust. 


238  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Of  her,  the  Way's  one  mortal  grace, 
Own,  save  thy  seeing  be  all  forgot, 

That,  truly,  God  was  in  this  place, 
And  thou,  unblessed,  knew'st  it  not. 


But  some  have  eyes,  and  will  not  see; 

And  some  would  see,  and  have  not  eyes; 
And  fail  the  tryst,  yet  find  the  Tree, 

And  take  the  lesson  for  the  prize. 


RETROSPECT 

Alas,  and  I  have  sung 
Much  song  of  matters  vain. 
And  a  heaven-sweetened  tongue 
Turned  to  unprofiting  strain 
Of  vacant  things,  which  though 
Even  so  they  be,  and  thoroughly  so, 
It  is  no  boot  at  all  for  thee  to  know, 
But  babble  and  false  pain. 


What  profit  if  the  sun 

Put  forth  his  radiant  thews. 

And  on  his  circuit  run, 

Even  after  my  device,  to  this  and  to  that  use; 

And  the  true  Orient,  Christ, 

Make  not  His  cloud  of  thee? 

I  have  sung  vanity. 

And  nothing  well  devised. 


SIGHT  AND  INSIGHT  239 

And  though  the  cry  of  stars 
Give  tongue  before  His  way 
Goldenly,  as  I  say, 

And  each  from  wide  Satumus  to  hot  Mars 
He  calleth  by  its  name, 
Lest  that  its  bright  feet  stray; 
And  thou  have  lore  of  all, 
But  to  thine  own  Sun's  call 
Thy  path  disorbed  hast  never  wit  to  tame; 
It  profits  not  withal. 
And  my  rede  is  but  lame. 
Only  that,  'mid  vain  vaunt 
Of  wisdom  ignorant, 
A  little  kiss  upon  the  feet  of  Love 
My  hasty  verse  has  stayed 
Sometimes  a  space  to  plant; 
It  has  not  wholly  strayed, 
Not  wholly  missed  near  sweet,  fanning  proud 
plumes  above. 

Therefore  I  do  repent 

That  with  religion  vain, 

And  misconceived  pain, 

I  have  my  music  bent 

To  waste  on  bootless  things  its  skiey-gendered  rain: 

Yet  shall  a  wiser  day 

Fulfil  more  heavenly  way 

And  with  approved  music  clear  this  slip, 

I  trust  in  God  most  sweet. 

Meantime  the  silent  lip. 

Meantime  the  climbing  feet. 


A  NARROW  VESSEL 

BEING  A  LITTLE  DRAMATIC  SEQUENCE  ON 
THE  ASPECT  OF  PRIMITIVE  GIRL-NATURE 
TOWARDS  A   LOVE  BEYOND  ITS  CAPACITIES 

A  GIRL'S  SIN 

I. IN    HER    EYES 

Cross  child!  red,  and  frowning  so? 

*I,  the  day  just  over, 
Gave  a  lock  of  hair  to — no! 

How  dare  you  say,  my  lover?' 

He  asked  you? — Let  me  understand; 

Come,  child,  let  me  sound  it! 
*Of  course,  he  would  have  asked  it,  and — 

And  so — somehow — ^lie — found  it. 

*He  told  it  out  with  great  loud  eyes — 

Men  have  such  little  wit! 
His  sin  I  ever  will  chastise 

Because  I  gave  him  it. 

'Shameless  in  me  the  gift,  alas! 

In  him  his  open  bliss: 
But  for  the  privilege  he  has 

A  thousand  he  shall  miss! 

240 


A  NARROW  VESSEL  241 

'His  eyes,  where  once  I  dreadless  laughed, 

Call  up  a  burning  blot: 
I  hate  him,  for  his  shameful  craft 

That  asked  by  asking  not!' 

Luckless  boy!  and  all  for  hair 

He  never  asked,  you  said? 
^Not  just — but  then  he  gazed — I  swear 

He  gazed  it  from  my  head! 

*His  silence  on  my  cheek  like  breath 

I  felt  in  subtle  way; 
More  sweet  than  aught  another  saith 

Was  what  he  did  not  say. 

'He'll  think  me  vanquished,  for  this  lapse^ 

Who  should  be  above  him ; 
Perhaps  he'll  think  me  light;  perhaps — 

Perhaps  he'll  think  I— love  him! 

'Are  his  eyes  conscious  and  elate, 

I  hate  him  that  I  blush; 
Or  are  they  innocent,  still  I  hate — 

They  mean  a  thing's  to  hush. 

'Before  he  naught  amiss  could  do, 

Now^  all  things  show  amiss; 
Twas  all  my  fault,  I  know  that  true, 

But  all  my  fault  was  his. 


24i  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

*I  hate  him  for  his  mute  distress, 
'Tis  insult  he  should  care! 

Because  my  heart's  all  humbleness, 
All  pride  is  in  my  air. 

'With  him,  each  favour  that  I  do 
Is  bold  suit's  hallowing  text; 

Each  gift  a  bastion  levelled  to 
The  next  one  and  the  next. 

^Each  wish  whose  grant  may  him  befall 
Is  clogged  by  those  withstood; 

He  trembles,  hoping  one  means  all, 
And  I,  lest  perhaps  it  should. 

'Behind  me  piecemeal  gifts  I  cast, 

My  fleeing  self  to  save; 
And  that's  the  thing  must  go  at  last, 

For  that's  the  thing  he'd  have. 

*My  lock  the  enforced  steel  did  grate 
To  cut;  its  root- thrills  came 

Down  to  my  bosom.   It  might  sate 
His  lust  for  my  poor  shame? 

'His  sifted  dainty  this  should  be 
For  a  score  ambrosial  years! 

But  his  too  much  humility 
Alarums  me  with  fears. 


A  NARROW  VESSEL  243 

'My  gracious  grace  a  breach  he  counts 

For  graceless  escalade; 
And,  though  he's  silent  ere  he  mounts, 

My  watch  is  not  betrayed. 

'My  heart  hides  from  my  soul  he's  sweet: 

Ah  dread,  if  he  divine! 
One  touch,  I  might  fall  at  his  feet, 

And  he  might  rise  from  mine. 

'To  hear  him  praise  my  eyes'  brown  gleams 

Was  native,  safe  delight; 
But  now  it  usurpation  seems. 

Because  I've  given  him  right. 

'Before,  I'd  have  him  not  remove; 

Now,  would  not  have  him  near; 
With  sacrifice  I  called  on  Love, 

And  the  apparition's  Fear.' 

Foolish  to  give  it! — '  'Twas  my  whim, 

When  he  might  parted  be. 
To  think  that  I  should  stay  by  him 

In  a  little  piece  of  me. 

'He  always  said  my  hair  was  soft — 

What  touches  he  will  steal! 
Each  touch  and  look  (and  he'll  look  oft) 

I  almost  thought  I'd  feel. 


I 


244  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

'And  then,  when  first  he  saw  the  hair, 

To  think  his  dear  amazement! 
As  if  he  wished  from  skies  a  star, 

And  found  it  in  his  casement. 

'He'd  kiss  the  lock — and  I  had  toyed 

With  dreamed  delight  of  this: 
But  ah,  in  proof,  delight  was  void — 

I  could  not  see  his  kiss!' 

So,  fond  one,  half  this  agony 

Were  spared,  which  my  hand  hushes, 

Could  you  have  played.  Sweet,  the  sweet  spy, 
And  blushed  not  for  your  blushes! 


A  GIRL'S  SIN 

II. IN    HIS    EYES 

Can  I  forget  her  cruelty 

Who,  brown  miracle,  gave  you  me? 

Or  with  unmoisted  eyes  think  on 

The  proud  surrender  overgone 

(Lowlihead  in  haughty  dress) 

Of  the  tender  tyranness? 

And  ere  thou  for  my  joy  wast  given, 

How  rough  the  road  to  that  blest  heaven! 

With  what  pangs  I  fore-expiated 

Thy  cold  outlawry  from  her  head; 

How  was  I  trampled  and  brought  low, 

Because  her  virgin  neck  was  so; 


A  NARROW  VESSEL  245 

How  thralled  beneath  the  jealous  state 

She  stood  at  point  to  abdicate; 

How  sacrificed,  before  to  me 

She  sacrificed  her  pride  and  thee; 

How  did  she,  struggling  to  abase 

Herself  to  do  me  strange,  sweet  grace, 

Enforce  unwitting  me  to  share 

Her  throes  and  ab jectness  with  her ; 

Thence  heightening  that  hour  when  her  lover 

Her  grace,  with  trembling,  should  discover^ 

And  in  adoring  trouble  be 

Humbled  at  her  humility! 

And  with  what  pitilessness  was  I 

Afterslain,  to  pacify 

The  uneasy  manes  of  her  shame. 

Her  haunting  blushes! — Mine  the  blame: 

What  fair  injustice  did  I  rue 

For  what  I — did  not  tempt  her  to! 

Nor  aught  the  judging  maid  might  win 

Me  to  assoil  from  her  sweet  sin. 

But  naught  were  extreme  punishment 

For  that  beyond-divine  content. 

When  my  with-thee-first-giddied  eyes 

Stooped  ere  their  due  on  Paradise! 

O  hour  of  consternating  bliss 

When  I  heavened  me  in  thy  kiss; 

Thy  softness  (daring  overmuch!) 

Profaned  with  my  licensed  touch; 

Worshipped,  with  tears,  on  happy  knee, 

Her  doubt,  her  trust,  her  shyness  free, 

Her  timorous  audacity! 


246  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

LOVE  DECLARED 

I  LOOKED,  she  drooped,  and  neither  spake,  and  cold 
We  stood,  how  unlike  all  forecasted  thought 
Of  that  desired  minute!  Then  I  leaned 
Doubting;  whereat  she  lifted — oh,  brave  eyes 
Unf righted: — forward  like  a  wind-blown  flame 
Came  bosom  and  mouth  to  mine! 

That  falling  kiss 
Touching  long-laid  expectance,  all  went  up 
Suddenly  into  passion;  yea,  the  night 
Caught,  blazed,  and  wrapt  us  round  in  vibrant  fire. 

Time's  beating  wing  subsided,  and  the  winds 
Caught  up  their  breathing,  and  the  world's  great  pulse 
Stayed  in  mid-throb,  and  the  wild  train  of  life 
Reeled  by,  and  left  us  stranded  on  a  hush. 
This  moment  is  a  statue  unto  Lovo 
Carved  from  a  fair  white  silence. 

Lo,  he  stands 
Within  us — are  we  not  one  now,  one,  one  roof, 
His  roof,  and  the  partition  of  weak  flesh 
Gone  down  before  him,  and  no  more  for  ever? — 
Stands  like  a  bird  new-lit,  and  as  he  lit, 
Pcised  in  our  quiet  being;  only,  only 
Within  our  shaken  hearts  the  air  of  passion, 
Cleft  by  his  sudden  coming,  eddies  still 
And  whirs  round  his  enchanted  movelessness. 
A  film  of  trance  between  two  stirrings!  Lo, 
It  bursts;  yet  dream's  snapped  links  cling  round  the  limbs 
Of  waking:  like  a  running  evening  stream 
Which  no  man  hears,  or  sees,  or  knows  to  run, 


A  NARROW  VESSEL  247 

(Glazed  with  dim  quiet,)  save  that  there  the  moon 
Is  shattered  to  a  creamy  flicker  of  flame, 
Our  eyes'  sweet  trouble  were  hid,  save  that  the  love 
Trembles  a  little  on  their  impassioned  calms. 


THE  WAY  OF  A  MAID 

The  lover  whose  soul  shaken  is 
In  some  decuman  billow  of  bliss, 
Who  feels  his  gradual-wading  feet 
Sink  in  some  sudden  hollow  of  sweet, 
And  'mid  love's  used  converse  comes 
Sharp  on  a  mood  which  all  joy  sums, 
An  instant's  fine  compendium  of 
The  liberal-leaved  writ  of  love — 
His  abashed  pulses  beating  thick 
At  the  exigent  joy  and  quick. 
Is  dumbed,  by  aiming  utterance  great 
Up  to  the  miracle  of  his  fate. 

The  wise  girl,  such  Icarian  fall 

Saved  by  her  confidence  that  she's  small,- 

As  what  no  kindred  word  will  fit 

Is  uttered  best  by  opposite. 

Love  in  the  tongue  of  hate  exprest. 

And  deepest  anguish  in  a  jest, — 

Feeling  the  infinite  must  be 

Best  said  by  triviality. 

Speaks,  where  expression  bates  its  wings, 

Just  happy,  alien,  little  things; 

What  of  all  words  is  in  excess 

Implies  in  a  sweet  nothingness; 


248  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

With  dailiest  babble  shows  her  sense 
That  full  speech  were  full  impotence; 
And,  while  she  feels  the  heavens  lie  bare, 
She  only  talks  about  her  hair. 


BEGINNING  OF  END 

She  was  aweary  of  the  hovering 

Of  Love's  incessant  and  tumultuous  wing; 

Her  lover's  tokens  she  would  answer  not — 

'Twere  well  she  should  be  strange  with  him  somewhat: 

A  pretty  babe,  this  Love, — but  fie  on  it. 

That  would  not  suffer  her  lay  it  down  a  whit! 

Appointed  tryst  defiantly  she  balked. 

And  with  her  lightest  comrade  lightly  walked. 

Who  scared  the  chidden  Love  to  hide  apart, 

And  peep  from  some  unnoticed  corner  of  her  heart. 

She  thought  not  of  her  lover,  deem  it  not 

(There  yonder,  in  the  hollow,  that's  his  cot), 

But  she  forgot  not  that  he  was  forgot. 

She  saw  him  at  his  gate,  yet  stilled  her  tongue— 

So  weak  she  felt  her,  that  she  would  feel  strong. 

And  she  must  punish  him  for  doing  him  wrong: 

Passed,  unoblivious  of  oblivion  still; 

And,  if  she  turned  upon  the  brow  o'  the  hill. 

It  was  so  openly,  so  lightly  done. 

You  saw  she  thought  he  was  not  thought  upon. 

He  through  the  gate  went  back  in  bitterness; 

She  that  night  woke  and  stirred,  with  no  distress. 

Glad  of  her  doing,— sedulous  to  be  glad, 

Lest  p^  haps  her  foolish  heart  suspect  that  it  was  sad. 


A  NARROW  VESSEL  249 

PENELOPE 

Love,  like  a  wind,  shook  wide  your  blossomy  eyes; 
You  trembled,  and  your  breath  came  sobbing-wise. 
For  that  you  loved  me. 

You  were  so  kind,  so  sweet,  none  could  withhold 
To  adore,  but  that  you  were  so  strange,  so  cold, 
For  that  you  loved  me. 

Like  to  a  box  of  spikenard  did  you  break 
Your  heart  about  my  feet.  What  words  you  spake! 
For  that  you  loved  me. 

Life  fell  to  dust  without  me;  so  you  tried 
All  carefullest  ways  to  drive  me  from  your  side, 
For  that  you  loved  me. 

You  gave  yourself  as  children  give,  that  weep 
And  snatch  back,  with — T  meant  you  not  to  keep!* 
For  that  you  loved  me. 

I  am  no  woman,  girl,  nor  ever  knew 
That  love  could  teach  all  ways  that  hate  could  do 
To  her  that  loved  me. 

Have  less  of  love,  or  less  of  woman  in 
Your  love,  or  loss  may  even  from  this  begin — 
That  you  so  love  me. 

For,  wild  Penelope,  the  web  you  wove 
You  still  unweave,  unloving  all  your  love. 
Is  this  to  love  me, 


2  50  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Or  what  rights  have  I  that  scorn  could  deny? 
Even  of  your  love,  alas,  poor  Love  must  die, 
If  so  you  love  me! 


THE  END  OF  IT 

She  did  not  love  to  love,  but  hated  him 

For  making  her  to  love;  and  so  her  whim 

From  passion  taught  misprision  to  begin. 

And  all  this  sin 

Was  because  love  to  cast  out  had  no  skill 

Self,  which  was  regent  still. 

Her  own  self-will  made  void  her  own  self's  wilL 


EPILOGUE 

If  I  have  studied  here  in  part 
A  tale  as  old  as  maiden's  heart, 
'Tis  that  I  do  see  herein 
Shadow  of  more  piteous  sin. 

She,  that  but  giving  part,  not  whole. 
Took  even  the  part  back,  is  the  Soul : 
And  that  so  disdained  Lover — 
Best  unthought,  since  Love  is  over. 

To  give  the  pledge,  and  yet  be  pined 
That  a  pledge  should  have  force  to  bind, 
This,  O  Soul,  too  often  still 
Is  the  recreance  of  thy  will! 


A  NARROW  VESSEL  251 

Out  of  Love's  arms  to  make  fond  chain, 
And,  because  struggle  bringeth  pain, 

Hate  Love  for  Love's  sweet  constraint, 

Is  the  way  of  Souls  that  faint. 

Such  a  Soul,  for  saddest  end, 
Finds  Love  the  foe  in  Love  the  friend; 
And — ah,  grief  incredible!  — 
Treads  the  way  of  Heaven,  to  HelL 


ULTIMA 


LOVE'S  ALMSMAN  PLAINETH  HIS   FARE 

You,  Love's  mendicancy  who  never  tried, 

How  little  of  your  almsman  me  you  know! 
Your  little  languid  hand  in  mine  you  slide. 

Like  to  a  child  says — 'Kiss  me  and  let  me  go!' 
And  night  for  this  is  fretted  with  my  tears, 

\ATiile  I: — 'How  soon  this  heavenly  neck  doth  tire, 
Bending  to  me  from  its  transtellar  spheres!' 

Ah,  heart  all  kneaded  out  of  honey  and  fire! 
Who  bound  thee  to  a  body  nothing  worth. 

And  shamed  thee  much  with  an  unlovely  soul, 
That  the  most  strainedest  charity  of  earth 

Distasteth  soon  to  render  back  the  whole 
Of  thine  inflamed  sweets  and  gentilesse? 

WTiereat,  like  an  unpastured  Titan,  thou 
Gnaw'st  on  thyself  for  famine's  bitterness, 

And  leap'st  against  thy  chain.    Sweet  Lady,  how 
Little  a  linking  of  the  hand  to  you! 

Though  I  should  touch  yours  careless  for  a  year. 
Not  one  blue  vein  would  lie  divinelier  blue 

Upon  your  fragile  temple,  to  unsphere 
The  seraphim  for  kisses!  Not  one  curve 

Of  your  sad  mouth  would  droop  more  sad  and  sweet. 
But  little  food  Love's  beggars  needs  must  serve. 


252 


ULTIMA  253 

That  eye  your  plenteous  graces  from  the  street. 
A  hand-clasp  I  must  feed  on  for  a  night, 

A  noon,  although  the  untasted  feast  you  lay, 
To  mock  me,  of  your  beauty.  That  you  might 

Be  lover  for  one  space,  and  make  essay 
What  'tis  to  pass  unsuppered  to  your  couch, 

Keep  fast  from  love  all  day;  and  so  be  taught 
The  famine  which  these  craving  lines  avouch! 

Ah!  miser  of  good  things  that  cost  thee  naught, 
How  know'st  thou  poor  men's  hunger? — Misery, 
When  I  go  doleless  and  unfed  by  thee! 


A  HOLOCAUST 

'No  man  ever  attained  supreme  knowledge,  unless  his  heart  had 
been  torn  up  by  the  roots.' 

When  I  presage  the  time  shall  come — yea,  now 

Perchance  is  come,  when  you  shall  fail  from  me, 
Because  the  mighty  spirit,  to  whom  you  vow 

Faith  of  kin  genius  unrebukably, 
Scourges  my  cloth;  and  from  your  side  dismissed 

Henceforth  this  sad  and  most,  most  lonely  soul 
Must,  marching  fatally  through  pain  and  mist, 

The  God-bid  levy  of  its  powers  enrol; 
When  I  presage  that  none  shall  hear  the  voice 

From  the  great  Mount  that  clangs  my  ordained  advance. 
That  sullen  envy  bade  the  churlish  choice 

Yourself  shall  say,  and  turn  your  altered  glance: — 
O  God!  Thou  knowest  if  this  heart  of  flesh 

Quivers  like  broken  entrails,  when  the  wheel 


254  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Rolleth  some  dog  in  middle  street,  or  fresh 

Fruit  when  ye  tear  it  bleeding  from  the  peel; 
If  my  soul  cries  the  uncomprehended  cry 

When  the  red  agony  oozed  on  Olivet. 
Yet  not  for  this,  a  caitiff,  falter  I, 

Beloved  whom  I  must  lose,  nor  thence  regret 
The  doubly-vouched  and  twin  allegiance  owed 

To  you  in  Heaven,  and  Heaven  in  you.  Lady. 
How  could  you  hope,  loose  dealer  with  my  God, 

That  I  should  keep  for  you  my  fealty? 
For  still  'tis  thus:— because  I  am  so  true. 
My  Fair,  to  Heaven,  I  am  so  true  to  you! 


MY  LADY  THE  TYRANNESS 

Me  since  your  fair  ambition  bows 
Feodary  to  those  gracious  brows. 
Is  nothing  mine  will  not  confess 
Your  sovran  sweet  rapaciousness? 
Though  use  to  the  white  yoke  inures, 
Half-petulant  is 

Your  loving  rebel  for  somewhat  his, 
Not  yours,  my  love,  not  yours! 

Behold  my  skies,  which  make  with  me 

One  passionate  tranquillity! 

Wrap  thyself  in  them  as  a  robe, 

She  shares  them  not;  their  azures  probe, 

No  countering  wings  thy  flight  endures. 

Nay,  they  do  stole 

Me  like  an  aura  of  her  soul. 

I  yield  them,  love,  for  yours! 


ULTIMA  255 

But  mine  these  hills  and  fields,  which  put 

Not  on  the  sanctity  of  her  foot. 

Far  off,  my  dear,  far  off  the  sweet 

Grave  pianissimo  of  your  feet! 

My  earth,  perchance,  your  sway  abjures? — 

Your  absence  broods 

O'er  all,  a  subtler  presence.  Woods, 

Fields,  hills,  all  yours,  all  yours! 

Nay  then,  I  said,  I  have  my  thought, 
Which  never  woman's  reaching  raught; 
Being  strong  beyond  a  woman's  might, 
And  high  beyond  a  woman's  height, 
Shaped  to  my  shape  in  all  contours. — 
I  looked,  and  knew 
No  thought  but  you  were  garden  to. 
All  yours,  my  love,  all  yours! 

Meseemeth  still,  I  have  my  life; 
All-clement  Her  its  resolute  strife 
Evades;  contained,  relinquishing 
Her  mitigating  eyes;  a  thing 
Wliich  the  whole  girth  of  God  secures. 
Ah,  fool,  pause!  pause! 
I  had  no  life,  until  it  was 
All  yours,  my  love,  all  yours! 

Yet,  stern  possession!  I  have  my  death, 
Sole  yielding  up  of  my  sole  breath. 
Which  all  within  myself  I  die, 
AH  in  myself  must  cry  the  cry 


2  56  FRANCIS  THOMPSON  S  POEMS 

Which  the  deaf  body's  wall  immures. — 
Thought  fashioneth 

My  death  without  her. — Ah,  even  death 
All  yours,  my  love,  all  yours! 

Death,  then,  be  hers.  I  have  my  heaven, 

For  which  no  arm  of  hers  has  striven; 

Which  solitary  I  must  choose, 

And  solitary  win  or  lose. — 

/ih,  but  not  heaven  my  own  endures! 

I  must  perforce 

Taste  you,  my  stream,  in   God  your  source,- 

So  steep  my  heaven  in  yours! 

At  last  I  said — I  have  my  God, 
Who  doth  desire  me,  though  a  clod, 
And  from  His  liberal  Heaven  shall  He 
Bar  in  mine  arms  His  privacy. 
Himself  for  mine  Himself  assures. — 
None  shall  deny 
God  to  be  mine,  but  He  and  I 
All  yours,  my  love,  all  yours! 

I  have  no  fear  at  all  lest  I 

Without  her  draw  felicity. 

God  for  His  Heaven  will  not  forego 

Her  whom  I  found  such  heaven  below, 

And  she  will  train  Him  to  her  lures. 

Naught,  lady,  I  love 

In  you  but  more  is  loved  above; 

What  made  me,  makes  Him,  yours. 


ULTIMA  257 

'I,  thy  sought  own,  am  I  forgot?' 
Ha,  thou? — thou  liest,  I  seek  thee  not. 
Why  what,  thou  painted  parrot,  Fame, 
WTiat  have  I  taught  thee  but  her  name? 
Hear,  thou  slave  Fame,  while  Time  endures, 
I  give  her  thee; 

Page  her  triumphal  name! — Lady, 
Take  her,  the  thrall  is  yours. 


UNTO  THIS  LAST 

A  boy's  young  fancy  taketh  love 
Most  simply,  with  the  rind  thereof; 
A  boy's  young  fancy  tasteth  more 
The  rind,  than  the  deific  core. 
Ah,  Sweet!  to  cast  away  the  slips 
Of  unessential  rind,  and  lips 
Fix  on  the  immortal  core,  is  well; 
But  heard'st  thou  ever  any  tell 
Of  such  a  fool  would  take  for  food 
Aspect  and  scent,  however  good. 
Of  sweetest  core  Love's  orchards  grow? 
Should  such  a  phantast  please  him  so. 
Love  where  Love's  reverent  self  denies 
Love  to  feed,  but  with  his  eyes, 
All  the  savour,  all  the  touch. 
Another's — was  there  ever  such? 
Such  were  fool,  if  fool  there  be; 
Such  fool  was  I,  and  was  for  thee! 
But  if  the  touch  and  savour  too 
Of  this  fruit — say.  Sweet,  of  you — 


258  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  TOEMS 

You  unto  another  give 

For  sacrosanct  prerogative, 

Yea,  even  scent  and  aspect  were 

Some  elected  Second's  share; 

And  one,  gone  mad,  should  rest  content 

With  memory  of  show  and  scent; 

Would  not  thyself  vow,  if  there  sigh 

Such  a  fool — say,  Sweet,  as  I — 

Treble  frenzy  it  must  be 

Still  to  love,  and  to  love  thee? 

Yet  had  I  torn  (man  knoweth  not. 

Nor  scarce  the  unweeping  angels  wot 

Of  such  dread  task  the  lightest  part) 

Her  fingers  from  about  my  heart. 

Heart,  did  we  not  think  that  she 

Had  surceased  her  tyranny? 

Heart,  we  bounded,  and  were  free! 

O  sacrilegious  freedom! — Till 

She  came,  and  taught  my  apostate  will 

The  winnowed  sweet  mirth  cannot  guess 

And  tear- fined  peace  of  hopelessness; 

Looked,  spake,  simply  touched,  and  went. 

Now  old  pain  is  fresh  content. 

Proved  contents  is  unproved  pain. 

Pangs  fore-tempted,  which  in  vain 

I,  faithless,  have  denied,  now  bud 

To  untempted  fragrance  and  the  mood 

Of  contrite  heavenliness;  all  days 

Joy  affrights  me  in  my  ways; 

Extremities  of  old  delight 

Afflict  me  with  new  exquisite 

Virgin  piercings  of  surprise, — 

Stung  by  those  wild  brown  bees,  her  eyes! 


ULTIMA  259 

ULTIMUM 

Now  in  these  last  spent  drops,  slow,  slower  shed. 

Love  dies,  Love  dies.  Love  dies — ah,  Love  is  dead! 

Sad  Love  in  life,  sore  Love  in  agony, 

Pale  Love  in  death;  while  all  his  offspring  songs. 

Like  children,  versed  not  in  death's  chilly  wrongs, 

About  him  flit,  frightened  to  see  him  lie 

So  still,  who  did  not  know  that  Love  could  die. 

One  lifts  his  wing,  where  dulls  the  vermeil  all 

Like  clotting  blood,  and  shrinks  to  find  it  cold, 

And  when  she  sees  its  lapse  and  nerveless  fall 

Clasps  her  fans,  while  her  sobs  ooze  through  the  webbed 

gold. 
Thereat  all  weep  together,  and  their  tears 
Make  lights  like  shivered  moonlight  on  long  waters. 
Have  peace,  O  piteous  daughters! 
He  shall  not  wake  more  through  the  mortal  years, 
Nor  comfort  come  to  my  soul  widowed. 
Nor  breath  to  your  wild  wings;  for  Love  is  dead! 
I  slew,  that  moan  for  him;  he  lifted  me 
Above  myself,  and  that  I  might  not  be 
Less  than  myself,  need  was  that  he  should  die; 
Since  Love  that  first  did  wing,  now  clogged  me  from  the 

sky. 
Yet  lofty  Love  being  dead  thus  passeth  base — 
There  is  a  soul  of  nobleness  which  stays, 
The  spectre  of  the  rose:  be  comforted, 
Songs,  for  the  dust  that  dims  his  sacred  head! 
The  days  draw  on  too  dark  for  Song  or  Love; 
O  peace,  my  songs,  nor  stir  ye  any  wing! 
For  lo,  the  thunder  hushing  all  the  grove, 
And  did  Love  live,  not  even  Love  could  sing. 


2  6o  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

And,  Lady,  thus  I  dare  to  say, 

Not  all  with  you  is  passed  away! 

Beyond  your  star,  still,  still  the  stars  are  bright; 

Beyond  your  highness,  still  I  follow  height; 

Sole  I  go  forth,  yet  still  to  my  sad  view. 

Beyond  your  trueness.  Lady,  Truth  stands  true. 

This  wisdom  sings  my  song  with  last  firm  breath. 

Caught  from  the  twisted  lore  of  Love  and  Death, 

The  strange  inwoven  harmony  that  wakes 

From  Pallas'  straying  locks  twined  with  her  segis- snakes: 

'On  him  the  unpetitioned  heavens  descend. 

Who  heaven  on  earth  proposes  not  for  end; 

The  perilous  and  celestial  excess 

Taking  with  peace,  lacking  with  thankfulness. 

Bliss  in  extreme  befits  thee  not,  until 

Thou'rt  not  extreme  in  bliss;  be  equal  still: 

Sweets  to  be  granted  think  thyself  unmeet 

Till  thou  have  learned  to  hold  sweet  not  too  sweet.* 

This  thing  not  far  is  he  from  wise  in  art 

Who  teacheth;  nor  who  doth,  from  wise  in  heart. 


AN  ANTHEM  OF  EARTH 

PROEMION 

Immeasurable  Earth! 

Through  the  loud  vast  and  populacy  of  Heaven, 

Tempested  with  gold  schools  of  ponderous  orbs, 

That  cleav'st  with  deep-revolving  harmonies 

Passage  perpetual,  and  behind  thee  draw'st 

A  furrow  sweet,  a  cometary  wake 

Of  trailing  music!  What  large  effluence. 

Not  sole  the  cloudy  sighing  of  thy  seas. 

Nor  thy  blue-coifing  air,  encases  thee 

From  prying  of  the  stars,  and  the  broad  shafts 

Of  thrusting  sunlight  tempers?    For,  dropped  near 

From  my  removed  tour  in  the  serene 

Of  utmost  contemplation,  I  scent  lives. 

This  is  the  efflux  of  thy  rocks  and  fields, 

And  wind-cuffed  forestage,  and  the  souls  of  men, 

And  aura  of  all  treaders  over  thee; 

A  sentient  exhalation,  wherein  close 

The  odorous  lives  of  many-throated  flowers,   • 

And  each  thing's  mettle  effused;  that  so  thou  wear'st, 

Even  like  a  breather  on  a  frosty  morn, 

Thy  proper  suspiration.    For  I  know. 

Albeit,  with  custom-dulled  perceivingness, 

Nestled  against  thy  breast,  my  sense  not  take 

261 


2  62  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

The  breathings  of  thy  nostrils,  there's  no  tree, 

No  grain  of  dust,  nor  no  cold-seeming  stone, 

But  wears  a  fume  of  its  circumfluous  self. 

Thine  own  life  and  the  lives  of  all  that  live, 

The  issue  of  thy  loins, 

Is  this  thy  gaberdine, 

Wherein  thou  walkest  through  thy  large  demesne 

And  sphery  pleasances, — 

Amazing  the  unstaled  eyes  of  Heaven, 

And  us  that  still  a  precious  seeing  have 

Behind  this  dim  and  mortal  jelly. 

Ah! 
If  not  in  all  too  late  and  frozen  a  day 
I  come  in  rearward  of  the  throats  of  song, 
Unto  the  deaf  sense  of  the  aged  year 
Singing  with  doom  upon  me;  yet  give  heed! 
One  poet  with  sick  pinion,  that  still  feels 
Breath  through  the  Orient  gateways  closing  fast, 
Fast  closing  t'ward  the  undelighted  night! 


-      ANTHEM 

In  nescientness,  in  nescientness, 

Mother,  we  put  these  fleshly  lendings  on 

Thou  yield'stto  thy  poor  children;  took  thy  gift 

Of  life,  which  must,  in  all  the  after  days, 

Be  craved  again  with  tears, — 

With  fresh  and  still-petitionary  tears. 

Being  once  bound  thine  almsmen  for  that  gift. 

We  are  bound  to  beggary,  nor  our  own  can  call 

The  journal  dole  of  customary  life, 


AN  ANTHEM  OF  EARTH  263 

But  after  suit  obsequious  for't  to  thee. 

Indeed  this  flesh,  O  Mother, 

A  beggar's  gown,  a  client's  badging, 

We  find,  which  from  thy  hands  we  simply  took, 

Naught  dreaming  of  the  after  penury, 

In  nescientness. 

In  a  little  joy,  in  a  little  joy. 

We  wear  awhile  thy  sore  insignia. 

Nor  know  thy  heel  0'  the  neck.    O  Mother!  Mother! 

Then  what  use  knew  I  of  thy  solemn  robes. 

But  as  a  child  to  play  with  them?  I  bade  thee 

Leave  thy  great  husbandries,  thy  grave  designs. 

Thy  tedious  state  which  irked  my  ignorant  years, 

Thy  winter- watches,  suckling  of  the  grain. 

Severe  premeditation  taciturn 

Upon  the  brooded  Summer,  thy  chill  cares. 

And  all  thy  ministries  majestical. 

To  sport  with  me,  thy  darling.  Thought  I  not 

Thou  sett'st  thy  seasons  forth  processional 

To  pamper  me  with  pageant, — thou  thyself 

My  fellow-gamester,  appanage  of  mine  arms? 

Then  what  wild  Dionysia  I,  young  Bacchanal, 

Danced  in  thy  lap!  Ah  for  thy  gravity! 

Then,  O  Earth,  thou  rang'st  beneath  me. 

Rocked  to  Eastward,  rocked  to  Westward, 

Even  with  the  shifted 

Poise  and  footing  of  my  thought! 

I  brake  through  thy  doors  of  sunset. 

Ran  before  the  hooves  of  sunrise. 

Shook  thy  matron  tresses  down  in  fancies 

Wild  and  wilful 

As  a  poet's  hand  could  twine  them; 


2  64  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Caught  in  my  fantasy's  crystal  chalice 

The  Bow,  as  its  cataract  of  colours 

Plashed  to  thee  downward; 

Then  when  thy  circuit  swung  to  nightward, 

Night  the  abhorred,  night  was  a  new  dawning, 

Celestial  dawning 

Over  the  ultimate  marges  of  the  soul; 

Dusk  grew  turbulent  with  fire  before  me, 

And  like  a  windy  arras  waved  with  dreams. 

Sleep  I  took  not  for  my  bedfellow, 

Who  could  waken 

To  a  revel,  an  inexhaustible 

Wassail  of  orgiac  imageries; 

Then  while  I  wore  thy  sore  insignia 

In  a  little  joy,  O  Earth,  in  a  little  joy; 

Loving  thy  beauty  in  all  creatures  born  of  thee, 

Children,  and  the  sweet-essenced  body  of  woman; 

Feeling  not  yet  upon  my  neck  thy  foot, 

But  breathing  warm  of  thee  as  infants  breathe 

New  from  their  mother's  morning  bosom.  So  I, 

Risen  from  thee,  restless  winnower  of  the  heaven, 

Most  Hermes-like,  did  keep 

My  vital  and  resilient  path,  and  felt 

The  play  of  wings  about  my  fledged  heel — 

Sure  on  the  verges  of  precipitous  dream, 

Swift  in  its  springing 

From  jut  to  jut  of  inaccessible  fancies. 

In  a  little  joy. 

In  a  little  thought,  in  a  little  thought, 
We  stand  and  eye  thee  in  a  grave  dismay. 
With  sad  and  doubtful  questioning,  when  first 


AN  ANTHEM  OF  EARTH  265 

Thou  speak'st  to  us  as  men:  like  sons  who  hear 

Newly  their  mother's  history,  unthought 

Before,  and  say — ^She  is  not  as  we  dreamed: 

Ah  me!  we  are  beguiled!'  What  art  thou,  then, 

That  art  not  our  conceiving?  Art  thou  not 

Too  old  for  thy  young  children?  Or  perchance, 

Keep'st  thou  a  youth  perpetual-burnishable 

Beyond  thy  sons  decrepit?  It  is  long 

Since  Time  was  first  a  fledgeling; 

Yet  thou  may'st  be  but  as  a  pendant  bulla 

Against  his  stripling  bosom  swung.  Alack! 

For  that  we  seem  indeed 

To  have  slipped  the  world's  great  leaping-time,  and  come 

Upon  thy  pinched  and  dozing  days:  these  weeds. 

These  corporal  leavings,  thou  not  cast'st  us  new, 

Fresh  from  thy  craftship,  like  the  lilies'  coats, 

But  foist 'st  us  off 

With  hasty  tarnished  piecings  negligent, 

Snippets  and  waste 

From  old  ancestral  wearings, 

That  have  seen  sorrier  usage;  remainder-flesh 

After  our  father's  surfeits;  nay  with  chinks, 

Some  of  us,  that,  if  speech  may  have  free  leave, 

Our  souls  go  out  at  elbows.  We  are  sad 

With  more  than  our  sires'  heaviness,  and  with 

More  than  their  weakness  weak;  we  shall  not  be 

Mighty  with  all  their  mightiness,  nor  shall  not 

Rejoice  \\1th  all  their  joy.  Ay,  Mother!  ^Mother! 

What  is  this  Man,  thy  darling  kissed  and  cuffed, 

Thou  lustingly  engender'st, 

To  sweat,  and  make  his  brag,  and  rot. 

Crowned  with  all  honour  and  all  shamefulness? 


2  66  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

From  nightly  towers 

He  dogs  the  secret  footsteps  of  the  heavens, 

Sifts  in  his  hands  the  stars,  weighs  them  as  gold-dust, 

And  yet  is  he  successive  unto  nothing 

But  patrimony  of  a  little  mold, 

And  entail  of  four  planks.  Thou  hast  made  his  mouth 

Avid  of  all  dominion  and  all  mightiness. 

All  sorrow,  all  delight,  all  topless  grandeurs. 

All  beauty,  and  all  starry  majesties, 

And  dim  transtellar  things; — even  that  it  may, 

Filled  in  the  ending  with  a  puff  of  dust. 

Confess — 'It  is  enough.'    The  world  left  empty 

What  that  poor  mouthful  crams.  His  heart  builded 

For  pride,  for  potency,  infinity. 

All  heights,  all  deeps,  and  all  immensities, 

Arrased  with  purple  like  the  house  of  kings, — 

To  stall  the  grey-rat,  and  the  carrion-worm 

Statelily  lodge.  Mother  of  mysteries! 

Sayer  of  dark  sayings  in  a  thousand  tongues. 

Who  bringest  forth  no  saying  yet  so  dark 

As  we  ourselves,  thy  darkest!  We  the  young. 

In  a  little  thought,  in  a  little  thought, 

At  last  confront  thee,  and  ourselves  in  thee. 

And  wake  disgarmented  of  glory:  as  one 

On  a  mount  standing,  and  against  him  stands. 

On  the  mount  adverse,  crowned  with  westering  rays, 

The  golden  sun,  and  they  two  brotherly 

Gaze  each  on  each; 

He  faring  down 

To  the  dull  vale,  his  Godhead  peels  from  him 

Till  he  can  scarcely  spurn  the  pebble — 

For  nothingness  of  new-found  mortality — 


AN  ANTHEM  OF  EARTH  267 

That  mutinies  against  his  galled  foot. 

Littly  he  sets  him  to  the  daily  way, 

With  all  around  the  valleys  growing  grave, 

And  known  things  changed  and  strange;  but  he  holds  on, 

Though  all  the  land  of  light  be  widowed. 

In  a  little  thought. 

In  a  little  strength,  in  a  little  strength. 

We  affront  thy  unveiled  face  intolerable, 

Which  yet  we  do  sustain. 

Though  I  the  Orient  never  more  shall  feel 

Break  like  a  clash  of  cymbals,  and  my  heart 

Clang  through  my  shaken  body  like  a  gong; 

Nor  ever  more  with  spurted  feet  shall  tread 

I'  the  winepresses  of  song;  naught's  truly  lost 

That  moulds  to  sprout  forth  gain:  now  I  have  on  me 

The  high  Phcebean  priesthood,  and  that  craves 

An  unrash  utterance;  not  with  flaunted  hem 

May  the  Muse  enter  in  behind  the  veil, 

Nor,  though  we  hold  the  sacred  dances  good, 

Shall  the  holy  Virgins  maenadize:  ruled  lips 

Befit  a  votaress  Muse. 

Thence  with  no  mutable,  nor  no  gelid  love, 

I  keep,  O  Earth,  thy  worship. 

Though  life  slow,  and  the  sobering  Genius  change 

To  a  lamp  his  gusty  torch.  What  though  no  more 

Athwart  its  roseal  glow 

Thy  face  look  forth  triumphal?  Thou  puttst  on 

Strange  sanctities  of  pathos;  like  this  knoll 

Made  derelict  of  day, 

Couchant  and  shadowed 

Under  dim  Vesper's  overloosened  hair: 


2  68  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

This,  where  embossed  with  the  half-blown  seed 

The  solemn  purple  thistle  stands  in  grass 

Grey  as  an  exhalation,  when  the  bank 

Holds  mist  for  water  in  the  nights  of  Fall. 

Not  to  the  boy,  although  his  eyes  be  pure 

As  the  prime  snowdrop  is 

Ere  the  rash  Phoebus  break  her  cloister 

Of  sanctimonious  snow; 

Or  Winter  fasting  sole  on  Himalay 

Since  those  dove-nuncioed  days 

When  Asia  rose  from  bathing; 

Not  to  such  eyes, 

Uneuphrasied  with  tears,  the  hierarchical 

Vision  lies  unoccult,  rank  under  rank 

Through  all  create  down-wheeling,  from  the  Throne 

Even  to  the  bases  of  the  pregnant  ooze. 

This  is  the  enchantment,  this  the  exaltation, 

The  all-compensating  wonder. 

Giving  to  common  things  wild  kindred 

With  the  gold-tesserate  floors  of  Jove; 

Linking  such  heights  and  such  humilities 

Hand  in  hand  in  ordinal  dances. 

That  I  do  think  my  tread. 

Stirring  the  blossoms  in  the  meadow-grass, 

Flickers  the  unwithering  stars. 

This  to  the  shunless  fardel  of  the  world 

Nerves  my  uncurbed  back:  that  I  endure. 

The  monstrous  Temple's  moveless  caryatid, 

With  wide  eyes  calm  upon  the  whole  of  things, 

In  a  little  strength. 


AN  ANTHEM  OF  EARTH  269 

In  a  little  sight,  in  a  little  sight, 

We  learn  from  what  in  thee  is  credible 

The  incredible,  with  bloody  clutch  and  feet 

Clinging  the  painful  juts  of  jagged  faith. 

Science,  old  noser  in  its  prideful  straw, 

That  with  anatomising  scalpel  tents 

Its  three-inch  of  thy  skin,  and  brags  'All's  bare' — 

The  eyeless  worm,  that,  boring,  works  the  soil, 

Making  it  capable  for  the  crops  of  God; 

Against  its  own  dull  will 

Ministers  poppies  to  our  troublous  thought, 

A  Balaam  come  to  prophecy, — parables. 

Nor  of  its  parable  itself  is  ware. 

Grossly  un wotting;  all  things  has  expounded, 

Reflux  and  influx,  counts  the  sepulchre 

The  seminary  of  being,  and  extinction 

The  Ceres  of  existence:  it  discovers 

Life  in  putridity,  vigour  in  decay; 

Dissolution  even,  and  disintegration, 

Which  in  our  dull  thoughts  symbolize  disorder, 

Finds  in  God's  thoughts  irrefragable  order. 

And  admirable  the  manner  of  our  corruption 

As  of  our  health.  It  grafts  upon  the  cypress 

The  tree  of  Life — Death  dies  on  his  own  dart 

Promising  to  our  ashes  perpetuity, 

A'.id  to  our  perishable  elements 

Their  proper  imperishability;  extracting 

Medicaments  from  out  mortality 

Against  too  mortal  cogitation;  till 

Even  of  the  caput  mortuum  we  do  thus 

Make  a  memento  vivere.  To  such  uses 

I  put  the  blinding  knowledge  of  the  fool, 


2  70  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Who  in  no  order  seeth  ordinance; 

Nor  thrust  my  arm  in  nature  shoulder-high, 

And  cry — 'There's  naught  beyond!'  How  should  I  so, 

That  cannot  with  these  arms  of  mine  engirdle 

All  which  I  am;  that  am  a  foreigner 

In  mine  own  region?  Who  the  chart  shall  draw 

Of  the  strange  courts  and  vaulty  labyrinths, 

The  spacious  tenements  and  wide  pleasances, 

Innumerable  corridors  far-withdrawn, 

Wherein  I  wander  darkling,  of  myself? 

Darkling  I  wander,  nor  I  dare  explore 

The  long  arcane  of  those  dim  catacombs. 

Where  the  rat  memory  does  its  burrows  make, 

Close-seal  them  as  I  may,  and  my  stolen  tread 

Starts  populace,  a  gens  lucifuga; 

That  too  strait  seems  my  mind  my  mind  to  hold, 

And  I  myself  incontinent  of  me. 

Then  go  I,  my  foul- venting  ignorance 

With  scabby  sapience  plastered,  aye  forsooth ! 

Clap  my  wise  foot-rule  to  the  walls  o'  the  world. 

And  vow — A  goodly  house,  but  something  ancient, 

And  I  can  find  no  Master?  Rather,  nay, 

By  baffled  seeing,  something  I  divine 

Which  baffles,  and  a  seeing  set  beyond; 

And  so  with  strenuous  gazes  sounding  down, 

Like  to  the  day-long  porer  on  a  stream, 

Whose  last  look  is  his  deepest,  I  beside 

This  slow  perpetual  Time  stand  patiently. 

In  a  little  sight. 


AN  ANTHEM  OF  EARTH  271 

In  a  little  dust,  in  a  little  dust, 

Earth,  thou  reclaim'st  us,  who  do  all  our  lives 

Find  of  thee  but  Egyptian  villeinage. 

Thou  dost  this  body,  this  enhavocked  realm, 

Subject  to  ancient  and  ancestral  shadows; 

Descended  passions  sway  it ;  it  is  distraught 

With  ghostly  usurpation,  dinned  and  fretted 

With  the  still-tyrannous  dead;  a  haunted  tenement, 

Peopled  from  barrows  and  outworn  ossuaries. 

Thou  giv'st  us  life  not  half  so  willingly 

As  thou  undost  thy  giving;  thou  that  teem'st 

The  stealthy  terror  of  the  sinuous  pard. 

The  lion  maned  with  curled  puissance. 

The  serpent,  and  all  fair  strong  beasts  of  ravin. 

Thyself  most  fair  and  potent  beast  of  ravin. 

And  thy  great  eaters  thou,  the  greatest,  eat'st. 

Thou  hast  devoured  mammoth  and  mastodon, 

And  many  a  floating  bank  of  fangs, 

The  scaly  scourges  of  thy  primal  brine. 

And  the  tower-crested  plesiosaure. 

Thou  fill'st  thy  mouth  with  nations,  gorgest  slow 

On  purple  aeons  of  kings;  man's  hulking  towers 

Are  carcase  for  thee,  and  to  modem  sun 

Disglutt'st  their  splintered  bones. 

Rabble  of  Pharaohs  and  Arsacidae 

Keep  their  cold  house  within  thee;  thou  hast  sucked  down 

How  many  Ninevehs  and  Hecatompyloi, 

And  perilled  cities  whose  great  phantasmata 

O'erbrow  the  silent  citizens  of  Dis: — 

Plast  not  thy  fill? 


2  72  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Tarry  awhile,  lean  Earth,  for  thou  shalt  drink, 

Even  till  thy  dull  throat  sicken. 

The  draught  thou  grow'st  most  fat  on;  hear'st  thou  not 

The  world's  knives  bickering  in  their  sheaths?  O  patience! 

Much  offal  of  a  foul  world  comes  thy  way. 

And  man's  superfluous  cloud  shall  soon  be  laid 

In  a  little  blood. 

In  a  little  peace,  in  a  little  peace, 

Thou  dost  rebate  thy  rigid  purposes 

Of  imposed  being,  and  relenting,  mend'st 

Too  much,  with  naught.  The  westering  Phoebus'  horse 

Paws  i'  the  lucent  dust  as  when  he  shocked 

The  East  with  rising;  O  how  may  I  trace 

In  this  decline  that  morning  when  we  did 

Sport  'twixt  the  claws  of  newly-whelped  existence, 

WTiich  had  not  yet  learned  rending?    We  did  then 

Divinely  stand,  not  knowing  yet  against  us 

Sentence  had  passed  of  life,  nor  commutation 

Petitioning  into  death.  What's  he  that  of 

The  Free  State  argues?  Tellus,  bid  him  stoop, 

Even  where  the  low  hie  jacet  answers  him; 

Thus  low,  O  Man!  there's  freedom's  seignory, 

Tellus'  most  reverend  sole  free  commonweal, 

And  model  deeply-policied :  there  none 

Stands  on  precedence,  nor  ambitiously 

Woos  the  impartial  worm,  whose  favour  kiss 

With  liberal  largesse  all;  there  each  is  free 

To  be  e'en  what  he  must,  which  here  did  strive 

So  much  to  be  he  could  not;  there  all  do 

Their  uses  just,  with  no  flown  questioning. 

To  be  took  by  the  hand  of  equal  earth 


AN  ANTHEM  OF  EARTH  273 

They  doff  her  livery,  slip  to  the  worm, 

Which  lacqueys  them,  their  suits  of  maintenance, 

And,  that  soiled  workaday  apparel  cast, 

Put  on  condition:  Death's  ungentle  buffet 

Alone  makes  ceremonial  manumission; 

So  are  the  heavenly  statutes  set,  and  those 

Uranian  tables  of  the  primal  Law. 

In  a  little  peace,  in  a  little  peace, 

Like  fierce  beasts  that  a  common  thirst  makes  brothers. 

We  draw  together  to  one  hid  dark  lake; 

In  a  little  peace,  in  a  little  peace. 

We  drain  with  all  our  burthens  of  dishonour 

Into  the  cleansing  sands  0'  the  thirsty  grave. 

The  fiery  pomps,  brave  exhalations, 

And  all  the  glistering  shows  o'  the  seeming  world. 

Which  the  sight  aches  at,  we  unwinking  see 

Through  the  smoked  glass  of  Death;   Death,  wherewith:? 

fined 
The  muddy  wine  of  life;  that  earth  doth  purge 
Of  her  plethora  of  man;  Death,  that  doth  flush 
The  cumbered  gutters  of  humanity; 
Nothing,  of  nothing  king,  with  front  uncrowned. 
Whose  hand  holds  crownets;  playmate  swart  0'  the  strong; 
Tenebrous  moon  that  flux  and  refluence  draws 
Of  the  high-tided  man;  skull-housed  asp 
That  stings  the  heel  of  kings;  true  Fount  of  Youth, 
Where  he  that  dips  is  deathless;  being's  drone-pipe; 
Whose  nostril  turns  to  blight  the  shrivelled  stars, 
And  thicks  the  lusty  breathing  of  the  sun; 
Pontifical  Death,  that  doth  the  crevasse  bridge 
To  the  steep  and  trifid  God;  one  mortal  birth 
That  broker  is  of  immortality. 


2  74  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Under  this  dreadful  brother  uterine, 
This  kinsman  feared,  Tellus,  behold  me  come, 
Thy  son  stern-nursed;  who  mortal-motherlike, 
To  turn  thy  weanlings'  mouth  averse,  embitter'st 
Thine  over-childed  breast.  Now,  mortal-sonlike, 
I  thou  hast  suckled,  Mother,  I  at  last 
Shall  sustenant  be  to  thee.  Here  I  untrammel, 
Here  I  pluck  loose  the  body's  cerementing, 
And  break  the  tomb  of  life;  here  I  shake  off 
The  bur  o'  the  world,  man's  congregation  shun, 
And  to  the  antique  order  of  the  dead 
I  take  the  tongueless  vows:  my  cell  is  set 
Here  in  thy  bosom;  my  trouble  is  ended 
In  a  little  peace, 


MISCELLANEOUS  ODES 


LAUS  AMARA  DOLORIS 

Implacable  sweet  daemon,  Poetry, 

What  have  I  lost  for  thee! 

Whose  lips  too  sensitively  well 

Have  shaped  thy  shrivelling  oracle. 

So  much  as  I  have  lost,  O  world,  thou  hast, 

And  for  thy  plenty  I  am  waste; 

Ah,  count,  O  world,  my  cost, 

Ah,  count,  O  world,  thy  gain. 

For  thou  hast  nothing  gained  but  I  have  lost! 

And  ah,  my  loss  is  such. 

If  thou  have  gained  as  much 

Thou  hast  even  harvest  of  Egyptian  years, 

And  that  great  overflow  which  gives  thee  grain- 

The  bitter  Nilus  of  my  risen  tears! 

I  witness  call  the  austere  goddess.  Pain. 

Whose  mirrored  image  trembles  where  it  lies 

In  my  confronting  eyes, 

If  I  have  learned  her  sad  and  solemn  scroll: — 

Have  I  neglected  her  high  sacrifice. 

Spared  my  heart's  children  to  the  sacred  knife^ 

Or  turned  her  customed  footing  from  my  soul? 

Yea,  thou  pale  Ashtaroth  who  rul'st  my  life, 


275 


2  76  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Of  all  my  offspring  thou  hast  had  the  whole. 

One  after  one  they  passed  at  thy  desire 

To  sacrificial  sword,  or  sacrificial  fire; 

'All,  all, — save  one,  the  sole. 

One  have  I  hid  apart, 

The  latest-born  and  sweetest  of  my  heart, 

From  thy  requiring  eyes. 

O  hope,  most  futile  of  futilities! 

Thine  iron  summons  comes  again, 

O  inevadible  Pain! 

Not  faithless  to  my  pact,  I  yield: — 'tis  here, 

That  solitary  and  fair, 

That  most  sweet,  last,  and  dear; 

Swerv'st  thou?  behold,  I  swerve  not: — strike,  nor  spare! 

Not  my  will  shudders,  but  my  flesh, 

In  awful  secrecy  to  hear 

The  wind  of  thy  great  treading  sweep  afresh 

Athwart  my  face,  and  agitate  my  hair. 

The  ultimate  unnerving  dearness  take. 

The  extreme  rite  of  abnegation  make. 

And  sum  in  one  all  renderings  that  were. 

The  agony  is  done. 

Her  footstep  passes  on; — 

The  unchilded  chambers  of  my  heart  rest  bare. 

The  love,  but  not  the  loved,  remains; 

As  where  a  flower  has  pressed  a  leaf 

The  page  yet  keeps  the  trace  and  stains. 

For  thy  delight,  world,  one  more  grief. 

My  world,  one  loss  more  for  thy  gains! 


MISCELLANEOUS  ODES  277 

Yet,  yet,  ye  few,  to  whom  is  given 
This  weak  singing,  I  have  learned 
111  the  starry  roll  of  heaven. 
Were  this  all  that  I  discerned 
Or  of  Poetry  or  of  Pain. 
Song!  turn  on  thy  hinge  again! 

Thine  alternate  panel  showed, 

Give  the  Ode  a  Palinode! 

Pain,  not  thou  an  Ashtaroth, 

Glutted  with  a  bloody  rite. 

But  the  icy  bath  that  doth 

String  the  slack  sinew^s  loosened  with  delight. 

O  great  Key-bearer  and  Keeper 

Of  the  treasuries  of  God! 

Wisdom's  gifts  are  buried  deeper 

Than  the  arm  of  man  can  go, 

Save  thou  show 

First  the  way,  and  turn  the  sod. 

The  poet's  crown,  with  misty  weakness  tarnished, 

In  thy  golden  fire  is  burnished 

To  round  with  more  illustrious  gleam  his  forehead. 

And  when  with  sacrifice  of  costliest  cost 

On  my  heart's  altar  is  the  Eterne  adored. 

The  fire  from  heaven  consumes  the  holocaust. 

Nay,  to  vicegerence  o'er  the  wide-confined 

And  mutinous  principate  of  mans'  restless  mind 

With  thine  anointing  oils  the  singer  is  designed: 

To  that  most  desolate  station 

Thine  is  his  deep  and  dolorous  consecration. 

Oh,  where  thy  chrism  shall  dry  upon  my  brow, 

By  that  authentic  sign  I  know 


2  78  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

The  sway  is  parted  from  this  tenuous  hand : 

And  all  the  wonted  dreams  that  ranked  stand, 

The  high  majestic  state, 

And  cloud-consorting  towers  of  visionary  land. 

To  some  young  usurpation  needs  must  go; 

And  I  am  all  unsceptred  of  command. 

Disdiademed  I  wait 

To  speak  with  sieging  Death,  mine  enemy,  in  the  gate. 

Preceptress  in  the  wars  of  God! 

His  tyros  draw  the  unmortal  sword, 

And  their  celestial  virtue  exercise, 

Beneath  thy  rigorous  eyes. 

Thou  severe  bride,  with  the  glad  suit  adored 

Of  many  a  lover  whose  love  is  unto  blood; 

Every  jewel  in  their  crown 

Thy  lapidary  hand  does  own; 

Nor  that  warm  jacinth  of  the  heart  can  put 

Its  lustres  forth,  till  it  be  cut. 

Thou  settest  thine  abode 

A  portress  in  the  gateways  of  all  love, 

And  tak'st  the  toll  of  joys;  no  maid  is  wed, 

But  thou  dost  draw  the  curtains  of  her  bed. 

Yea,  on  the  brow  of  mother  and  of  wife 

Descends  thy  confirmation  from  above, 

A  Pentecostal  flame;  love's  holy  bread. 

Consecrated, 

Not  sacramental  is,  but  through  thy  leaven. 

Thou  pacest  either  frontier  where  our  life 

Marches  with  God's;  both  birth  and  death  are  given 

Into  thy  lordship;  those  debated  lands 

Are  subject  to  thy  hands: 


MISCELLANEOUS  ODES  279 

The  border- warden,  thou,  of  Heaven — 

Yea,  that  same  awful  angel  with  the  glaive 

Which  in  disparadising  orbit  swept 

Lintel  and  pilaster  and  architrave 

Of  Eden-gates,  and  forth  before  it  drave 

The  primal  pair,  then  first  whose  startled  eyes, 

With  pristine  drops  0'  the  no  less  startled  skies 

Their  o\mi  commingling,  wept;  — 

With  strange  affright 

Sin  knew  the  bitter  first  baptismal  rite. 

Save  through  thy  ministry  man  is  not  fed; 

Thou  uninvoked  presid'st,  and  unconfest, 

The  mistress  of  his  feast: 

From  the  earth  we  gain  our  bread,  and — like  the  bread 

Dropt  and  regathered 

By  a  child  crost  and  thwart. 

Whom  need  makes  eat,  though  sorely  weep  he  for't — 

It  tastes  of  dust  and  tears. 

Iron  Ceres  of  an  earth  where,  since  the  Curse, 

Man  has  had  power  perverse 

Beside  God's  good  to  set  his  evil  seed! 

Those  shining  acres  of  the  musket-spears — 

Where  flame  and  wither  with  swift  intercease 

Flowers  of  red  sleep  that  not  the  corn-field  bears — 

Do  yield  thee  minatory  harvest,  when 

Unto  the  fallow  time  of  sensual  ease 

Implacably  succeed 

The  bristling  issues  of  the  sensual  deed; 

And  like  to  meteors  from  a  rotting  fen 


28o  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

The  fiery  pennons  flit  o'er  the  stagnation 

Of  the  world's  sluggish  and  putrescent  life, 

Misleading  to  engulfing  desolation 

And  blind,  retributive,  unguessing  strife, 

The  fatal  footsteps  of  pursuing  men. 

Thy  pall  in  purple  sovereignty  was  dipt 

Beneath  the  tree  of  Golgotha; 

And  from  the  Hand,  wherein  the  reed  was  dipt, 

Thy  bare  and  antique  sceptre  thou  dost  draw. 

That  God-sprung  Lover  to  thy  front  allows, 

Fairest,  the  bloody  honour  of  His  brows,    • 

The  great  reversion  of  that  diadem 

Which  did  His  drenched  locks  hem. 

For  the  predestined  Man  of  Grief, 

O  regnant  Pain,  to  thee 

His  subject  sway  elected  to  enfeoff; 

And  from  thy  sad  conferring  to  endure 

The  sanguine  state  of  liis  investiture; 

Yea,  at  thy  hand,  most  sombre  suzerain, 

That  dreadful  crown  He  held  in  fealty; 

O  Queen  of  Calvary, 

Holy  and  terrible,  anointed  Pain! 

A  CAPTAIN  OF  SONG 

(on  a  portrait  of  COVENTRY  PATMORE 
BY  J.  S.  SARGENT,  R.A.) 

Look  on  him.  This  is  he  whose  works  ye  know; 
Ye  have  adored,  thanked,  loved  him, — no,  not  him! 
But  that  of  him  which  proud  portentous  woe 
To  its  own  grim 


MISCELLAx\EOUS  ODES  281 

Presentment  was  not  potent  to  subdue, 

Nor  all  the  reek  of  Erebus  to  dim. 

This,  and  not  him,  ye  knew. 

Look  on  him  now.     Love,  worship  if  ye  can. 

The  very  man. 

Ye  may  not.  He  has  trod  the  ways  afar, 

The  fatal  ways  of  parting  and  farewell, 

Where  all  the  paths  of  pained  greatness  are; 

Where  round  and  always  round 

The  abhorred  words  resound, 

The  words  accursed  of  comfortable  men, — 

Tor  ever';  and  infinite  glooms  intolerable 

With  spacious  replication  give  again, 

And  hollow  jar. 

The  words  abhorred  of  comfortable  men. 

You  the  stem  pities  of  the  gods  debar 

To  drink  where  he  has  drunk — 

The  moonless  mere  of  sighs. 

And  pace  the  places  infamous  to  tell, 

Where  God  wipes  not  the  tears  from  any  eyes. 

Where-through  the  ways  of  dreadful  greatness  are. 

He  knows  the  perilous  rout 

That  all  those  ways  about 

Sink  into  doom,  and  sinking,  still  are  sunk. 

And  if  his  sole  and  solemn  term  thereout 

He  has  attained,  to  love  ye  shall  not  dare 

One  who  has  journeyed  there; 

Ye  shall  mark  well 

The  mighty  cruelties  which  arm  and  mar 

That  countenance  of  control, 

With  minatory  warnings  of  a  soul 


282  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

That  hath  to  its  own.  selfliood  been  most  fell, 

And  is  not  weak  to  spare: 

And  lo,  that  hair 

Is  blanched  with  the  travel-heats  of  hell. 

If  any  be 

That  shall  with  rites  of  reverent  piety- 
Approach  this  strong 
Sad  soul  of  sovereign  Song, 
Nor  fail  and  falter  with  the  intimidate  throng; 
If  such  there  be, 
These,  these  are  only  they 
Have  trod  the  self- same  way; 
The  never-twice  revolving  portals  heard 
Behind  them  clang  infernal,  and  that  word 
Abhorred  sighed  of  kind  mortality, 
As  he — 
Ah,  even  as  he! 


AGAINST  URANIA 

Lo,  I,  Song's  most  true  lover,  plain  me  sore 

That  worse  than  other  women  she  can  deceive, 

For  she  being  goddess,  I  have  given  her  more 

Than  mortal  ladies  from  their  loves  receive; 

And  first  of  her  embrace 

She  was  not  coy,  and  gracious  were  her  ways, 

That  I  forgot  all  virgins  to  adore; 

Nor  did  I  greatly  grieve 

To  bear  through  arid  davs 

The  pretty  foil  of  her  divine  delays; 


MISCELLANEOUS  ODES  2S3 

And  one  by  one  to  cast 

Life,  love,  and  health, 

Content,  and  wealth. 

Before  her,  thinking  ever  on  her  praise, 

Until  at  last 

Naught  had  I  left  she  would  be  gracious  for. 

Now  of  her  cozening  I  complain  me  sore. 

Seeing  her  uses. 

That  still,  more  constantly  she  is  pursued, 

And  straitlier  wooed. 

Her  only-adored  favour  more  refuses, 

And  leaves  me  to  implore 

Remembered  boon  in  bitterness  of  blood. 

From  mortal  woman  thou  may'st  know  full  well, 

O  poet,  that  dost  deem  the  fair  and  tall 

Urania  of  her  ways  not  mutable, 

What  things  shall  thee  befall 

When  thou  art  toiled  in  her  sweet,  wild  spell. 

Do  they  strow  for  thy  feet 

A  little  tender  favour  and  deceit 

Over  the  sudden  mouth  of  hidden  hell? — 

As  more  intolerable 

Her  pit,  as  her  first  kiss  is  heavenlier-sweet. 

Are  they,  the  more  thou  sigh. 

Still  the  more  watchful-cruel  to  deny? — 

Kjiow  this,  that  in  her  service  thou  shalt  learn 

How  harder  than  the  heart  of  woman  is 

The  immortal  cruelty 

Of  the  high  goddesses. 

Trae  is  his  witness  who  doth  witness  this, 

Whose  gaze  too  early  fell — ■ 


284  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Nor  thence  shall  turn, 

Nor  in  those  fires  shall  cease  to  weep  and  bum- 

Upon  her  ruinous  eyes  and  ineludible. 


TO  THE  ENGLISH   MARTYRS 

Rain,  rain  on  Tyburn  tree, 
Red  rain  a- falling; 
Dew,  dew  on  Tyburn  tree. 
Red  dew  on  Tyburn  tree, 
And  the  swart  bird  a-calling. 
The  shadow  lies  on  England  now 
Of  the  deathly-fruited  bough: 
Cold  and  black  with  malison 
Lies  between  the  land  and  sun; 
Putting  out  the  sun,  the  bough 
Shades  England  now! 

The  troubled  heavens  do  wan  with  care, 

And  burthened  with  the  earth's  despair 

Shiver  a-cold;  the  starved  heaven 

Has  want,  with  wanting  man  bereaven. 

Blest  fruit  of  the  unblest  bough, 

Aid  the  land  that  smote  you,  now  I 

That  feels  the  sentence  and  the  curse 

Ye  died  if  so  ye  might  reverse. 

When  God  was  stolen  from  out  man's  mouth. 

Stolen  was  the  bread;  then  hunger  and  drouth 

Went  to  and  fro;  began  the  wail, 

Struck  out  the  poor-house  and  the  jail. 

Ere  cut  the  dykes,  let  through  that  flood, 

Ye  writ  the  protest  with  your  blood; 


MISCELLANEOUS  ODES  285 

Against  this  night — wherein  our  breath 
Withers,  and  the  toiled  heart  perisheth, — 
Entered  the  caveat  of  your  death, 

Christ,  in  the  form  of  His  true  Bride, 

Again  hung  pierced  and  crucified, 

And  groaned,  'I  thirst!'  Not  still  ye  stood, — 

Ye  had  your  hearts,  ye  had  your  blood; 

And  pouring  out  the  eager  cup, — 

The  wine  is  weak,  yet.  Lord  Christ,  sup!' 

Ah,  blest!  who  bathed  the  parched  Vine 

With  richer  than  His  Cana-wine, 

And  heard,  your  most  sharp  supper  past: 

'Ye  kept  the  best  wine  to  the  last!' 

Ah,  happy  who 

That  sequestered  secret  knew, 

How  sweeter  than  bee-haunted  dells 

The  blosmy  blood  of  martyrs  smells! 

Who  did  upon  the  scaffold's  bed, 

The  ceremonial  steel  between  you,  wed 

With  God's  grave  proxy,  high  and  reverend  Death; 

Or  felt  about  your  neck,  sweetly, 

(While  the  dull  horde 

Saw  but  the  unrelenting  cord) 

The  Bridegroom's  arm,  and  that  long  kiss 

That  kissed  away  your  breath,  and  claimed  you  Hi 

You  did,  with  thrift  of  holy  gain, 

Unvenoming  the  sting  of  pain. 

Hive  its  sharp  heather-honey.  Ye 

Had  sentience  of  the  mystery 


286  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

To  make  Abaddon's  hooked  wings 

Buoy  you  up  to  starry  things; 

Pain  of  heart,  and  pain  of  sense, 

Pain  the  scourge,  ye  taught  to  cleanse; 

Pain  the  loss  became  possessing; 

Pain  the  curse  was  pain  the  blessing. 

Chains,  rack,  hunger,  solitude — these. 

Which  did  your  soul  from  earth  release, 

Left  it  free  to  rush  upon 

And  merge  in  its  compulsive  Sun. 

Desolated,  bruised,  forsaken. 

Nothing  taking,  all  things  taken. 

Lacerated  and  tormented, 

The  stifled  soul,  in  naught  contented. 

On  all  hands  straitened,  cribbed,  denied. 

Can  but  fetch  breath  o'  the  God  ward  side. 

Oh  to  me,  give  but  to  me 

That  flower  of  felicity. 

Which  on  your  topmost  spirit  ware 

The  difficult  and  snowy  air 

Of  high  refusal!  and  the  heat 

Of  central  love  which  fed  with  sweet 

And  holy  fire  i'  the  frozen  sod 

Roots  that  had  ta'en  hold  on  God. 

Unwithering  youth  in  you  renewed 
Those  rosy  waters  of  your  blood, — 
The  true  Pons  Juventiitis;  ye 
Pass  with  conquest  that  Red  Sea, 
And  stretch  out  your  victorious  hand 
Over  the  Fair  and  Holy  Land. 


MISCELLANEOUS  ODES  287 

O,  by  the  Church's  pondering  art 

Late  set  and  named  upon  the  chart 

Of  her  divine  astronomy, 

Though  your  influence  from  on  high 

Long  ye  shed  unnoted!  Bright 

New  cluster  in  our  Northern  night, 

Cleanse  from  its  pain  and  undelight 

An  impotent  and  tarnished  hymn. 

Whose  marish  exhalations  dim 

Splendours  they  would  transfuse!  And  thou 

Kindle  the  words  which  blot  thee  now. 

Over  whose  sacred  corse  unhearsed 

Europe  veiled  her  face,  and  cursed 

The  regal  mantle  grained  in  gore 

Of  genius,  freedom,  faith,  and  More! 

Ah,  happy  Fool  of  Christ,  unawed 
By  familiar  sanctities. 
You  served  your  Lord  at  holy  easel 
Dear  Jester  in  the  Courts  of  God — 
In  whose  spirit,  enchanting  yet. 
Wisdom  and  love,  together  met. 
Laughed  on  each  other  for  content! 
That  an  inward  merriment, 
An  inviolate  soul  of  pleasure. 
To  your  motions  taught  a  measure 
All  your  days;  which  tyrant  king. 
Nor  bonds,  nor  any  bitter  thing 
Could  embitter  or  perturb; 
No  daughter's  tears,  nor,  more  acerb, 
A  daughter's  frail  declension  from 
Thy  serene  example,  come 


288  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Between  thee  and  thy  much  content. 

Nor  could  the  last  sharp  argument 

Turn  thee  from  thy  sweetest  folly; 

To  the  keen  accolade  and  holy 

Thou  didst  bend  low  a  sprightly  knee, 

And  jest  Death  out  of  gravity 

As  a  too  sad-visaged  friend; 

So,  jocund,  passing  to  the  end 

Of  thy  laughing  martyrdom; 

And  now  from  travel  art  gone  home 

Where,  since  gain  of  thee  was  given, 

Surely  there  is  more  mirth  in  heaven! 

Thus,  in  Fisher  and  in  thee, 

Arose  the  purple  dynasty, 

The  anointed  Kings  of  Tyburn  tree; 

High  in  act  and  word  each  one: 

He  that  spake — and  to  the  sun 

Pointed — T  shall  shortly  be 

Above  yon  fellow.'  He  too,  he 

No  less  high  of  speech  and  brave. 

Whose  word  was:  Though  I  shall  have 

Sharp  dinner,  yet  I  trust  in  Christ 

To  have  a  most  sweet  supper.'  Priced 

Much  by  men  that  utterance  was 

Of  the  doomed  Leonidas, — 

Not  more  exalt  than  these,  which  note 

Men  who  thought  as  Shakespeare  wrote. 

But  more  lofty  eloquence 

That  is  writ  by  poets'  pens 

Lives  in  your  great  deaths:  O  these 


MISCELLANEOUS  ODES  289 

Have  more  fire  than  poesies! 

And  more  ardent  than  all  ode, 

The  pomps  and  raptures  of  your  blood! 

By  that  blood  ye  hold  in  fee 

This  earth  of  England;   Kings  are  ye: 

And  ye  have  armies — Want,  and  Cold, 

And  heavy  Judgements  manifold 

Hung  in  the  unhappy  air,  and  Sins 

That  the  sick  gorge  to  heave  begins, 

Agonies,  and  Alartyrdoms, 

Love,  Hope,  Desire,  and  all  that  comes 

From  the  unwatered  soul  of  man 

Gaping  on  God.  These  are  the  van 

Of  conquest,  these  obey  you;  these. 

And  all  the  strengths  of  weaknesses. 

That  brazen  walls  disbed.  Your  hand, 

Princes,  put  forth  to  the  command. 

And  levy  upon  the  guilty  land 

Your  saving  wars;  on  it  go  down, 

Black  beneath  God's  and  heaven's  frown; 

Your  prevalent  approaches  make 

With  unsustainable  Grace,  and  take 

Captive  the  land  that  captived  you; 

To  Christ  enslave  ye  and  subdue 

Her  so  bragged  freedom:  for  the  crime 

She  wrought  on  you  in  antique  time, 

Parcel  the  land  among  you:  reign. 

Viceroys  to  your  sweet  Suzerain! 

Till  she  shall  know 

This  lesson  in  her  overthrow: 

Hardest  servitude  has  he 


290  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

That's  jailed  in  arrogant  liberty; 
And  freedom,  spacious  and  unflawed, 
Who  is  walled  about  with  God. 


ODE   FOR   THE  DIAMOND   JUBILEE 
OF  QUEEN  VICTORIA,   1897 

N'ight;  and  the  street  a  corpse  beneath  the  moon, 

Upon  the  threshold  of  the  jubilant  day 

That  was  to  follow  soon; 

Thickened  with  inundating  dark 

'Gainst  which  the  drowning  lamps  kept  struggle;  pole 

And  plank  cast  rigid  shadows;  'twas  a  stark 

Thing  waiting  for  its  soul, 

The  bones  of  the  preluded  pomp.  I  saw 

m  the  cloud-sullied  moon  a  pale  array, 

A  lengthened  apparition,  slowly  draw; 

And  as  it  came. 

Brake  all  the  streets  in  phantom  flame 

Of  flag  and  flower  and  hanging,  shadowy  show 

Of  the  to-morrow's  glories,  as  might  suit 

A  pageant  of  the  dead;  and  spectral  bruit 

I  heard,  where  stood  the  dead  to  watch  the  dead. 

The  long  Victorian  line  that  passed  with  printless  tread. 

First  went  the  holy  poets,  two  on  two. 

And  music,  sown  along  the  hardened  ground, 

Budded  like  frequence  of  glad  daisies,  where 

Those  sacred  feet  did  fare; 

Arcadian  pipe,  and  psaltery,  around, 

And  stringed  viol,  sound 


MISCELLANEOUS  ODES  291 

To  make  for  them  melodious  due. 

In  the  first  twain  of  those  great  ranks  of  death 

Went  One,  the  impress  recent  on  his  hair 

Where  it  was  dinted  by  the  Laureate  wreath: 

Who  sang  those  goddesses  with  splendours  bare 

On  Ida  hill,  before  the  Trojan  boy; 

And  many  a  lovely  lay, 

Where  Beauty  did  her  beauties  unarray 

In  conscious  song.  I  saw  young  Love  his  plumes  deploy. 

And  shake  their  shivering  lustres,  till  the  night 

Was  sprinkled  and  bedropt  with  starry  play 

Of  versicoloured  light, 

To  see  that  Poet  pass  who  sang  him  well; 

And  I  could  hear  his  heart 

Throb  like  the  after-vibrance  of  a  bell. 

A  Strength  beside  this  Beauty,  Browning  went, 

With  shrewd  looks  and  intent. 

And  meditating  still  some  gnarled  theme. 

Then  came,  somewhat  apart, 

In  a  fastidious  dream, 

Arnold,  v>^ith  a  half-discontented  calm, 

Binding  up  wounds,  but  pouring  in  no  balm. 

The  fervid  breathing  of  Elizabeth 

Broke  on  Christina's  gentle-taken  breath. 

Rossetti,  whose  heart  stirred  within  his  breast 

Like  lightning  in  a  cloud,  a  Spirit  without  rest. 

Came  on  disranked;   Song's  hand  was  in  his  hair, 

Lest  Art  should  have  vv^ithdrawn  him  from  the  band. 

Save  for  her  strong  command; 

And  in  his  eyes  high  Sadness  made  its  lair. 


292  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Last  came  a  Shadow  tall,  with  drooping  lid, 

ViTiich  yet  not  hid 

The  steel-like  flashing  of  his  armed  glance; 

Alone  he  did  advance, 

And  all  the  throngs  gave  room 

For  one  that  looked  with  such  a  captain's  mien. 

A  scornful  smile  lay  keen 

On  lips  that,  living,  prophesied  of  doom; 

His  one  hand  held  a  lightning-bolt,  the  other 

A  cup  of  milk  and  honey  blent  with  fire; 

It  seemed  as  in  that  quire 

He  had  not,  nor  desired  not,  any  brother. 

A  space  his  alien  eye  surveyed  the  pride 

Of  meditated  pomp,  as  one  that  much 

Disdained  the  sight,  methought;  then,  at  a  touch, 

He  turned  the  heel,  and  sought  with  shadowy  stride 

His  station  in  the  dim. 

Where  the  sole-thoughted  Dante  waited  him. 

What  throngs  illustrious  next,  of  Art  and  Prose, 

Too  long  to  tell!  But  other  music  rose 

When  came  the  sabre's  children:  they  who  led 

The  iron-throated  harmonies  of  war, 

The  march  resounding  of  the  armed  line, 

And  measured  movement  of  battalia: 

Accompanied  their  tread 

No  harps,  no  pipes  of  soft  Arcadia, 

But — borne  to  me  afar — 

The  tramp  of  squadrons,  and  the  bursting  mine, 

The  shock  of  steel,  the  volleying  rifle-crack, 

And  echoes  out  of  ancient  battles  dead. 

So  Cawnpore  unto  Alma  thundered  back. 

And  Delhi's  cannon  roared  to  Gujerat: 


MISCELLANEOUS  ODES  293 

Carnage  through  all  those  iron  vents  gave  out 

Her  thousand-mouthed  shout. 

As  balefire  answering  balefire  is  unfurled, 

From  mountain-peaks,  to  tell  the  foe's  approaches, 

So  ran  that  battle-clangour  round  the  world, 

From  famous  field  to  field 

So  that  reverberated  war  was  tossed; 

And — in  the  distance  lost — 

Across  the  plains  of  France  and  hills  of  Spain 

It  swelled  once  more  to  birth, 

And  broke  on  me  again, 

The  voice  of  England's  glories  girdling  in  the  earth. 

It  caught  like  fire  the  main, 

Where  rending  planks  were  heard,  and  broadsides  pealed, 

That  shook  were  all  the  seas, 

Which  feared,  and  thought  on  Nelson.  For  with  them 

That  struck  the  Russ,  that  brake  the  Mutineer, 

And  smote  the  stiff  Sikh  to  his  knee, — with  these 

Came  they  that  kept  our  England's  sea-swept  hem. 

And  held  afar  from  her  the  foreign  fear. 

After  them  came 

They  who  pushed  back  the  ocean  of  the  Unknown, 

And  fenced  some  strand  of  knowledge  for  our  own 

Against  the  outgoing  sea 

Of  ebbing  mystery; 

And  on  their  banner  'Science'  blazoned  shone. 

The  rear  were  they  that  wore  the  statesman's  fame, 

From  Melbourne,  to 

The  arcane  face  of  the  much-wrinkled  Jew. 


294  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Lo,  in  this  day  we  keep  the  yesterdays, 

And  those  great  dead  of  the  Victorian  line. 

They  passed,  they  passed,  but  cannot  pass  away, 

For  England  feels  them  in  her  blood  like  wine. 

She  was  their  mother,  and  she  is  their  daughter, 

This  Lady  of  the  water. 

And  from  their  loins  she  draws  the  greatness  which  they 

were. 
And  still  their  wisdom  sways, 
Their  power  lives  in  her. 

Their  thews  it  is,  England,  that  lift  thy  sword, 
They  are  the  splendour,  England,  in  thy  song. 
They  sit  unbidden  at  thy  council-board. 
Their  fame  does  compass  all  thy  coasts  from  wrong, 
And  in  thy  sinews  they  are  strong. 
Their  absence  is  a  presence  and  a  guest 
In  this  day's  feast; 
This  living  feast  is  also  of  the  dead. 
And  this,  O  England,  is  thine  All  Souls'  Day. 
And  when  thy  cities  flake  the  night  with  flames, 
Thy  proudest  torches  yet  shall  be  their  names. 

O  royal  England!  happy  child 

Of  such  a  more  than  regal  line; 

Be  it  said 

Fair  right  of  jubilee  is  thine; 

And  surely  thou  art  unbeguiled 

If  thou  keep  with  mirth  and  play, 

With  dance,  and  jollity,  and  praise, 

Such  a  To-day  which  sums  such  Yesterdays. 

Pour  to  the  joyless  ones  thy  joy,  thy  oil 

And  wine  to  such  as  faint  and  toil. 


MISCELLANEOUS  ODES  295 

And  let  thy  vales  malve  haste  to  be  more  green 

Than  any  vales  are  seen 

In  less  auspicious  lands, 

And  let  thy  trees  clap  all  their  leafy  hands, 

And  let  thy  flowers  be  gladder  far  of  hue 

Than  flowers  of  other  regions  may; 

Let  the  rose,  with  her  fragrance  sweetened  through, 

Flush  as  young  maidens  do, 

With  their  own  inward  blissfulness  at  play. 

And  let  the  sky  twinkle  an  eagerer  blue 

Over  our  English  isle 

Than  any  otherwhere; 

Till  strangers  shall  behold,  and  own  that  she  is  fair. 

Play  up,  play  up,  ye  birds  of  minstrel  June, 

Play  up  your  reel,  play  up  your  giddiest  spring, 

And  trouble  every  tree  with  lusty  tune, 

Whereto  our  hearts  shall  dance 

For  overmuch  pleasance. 

And  children's  running  make  the  earth  to  sing. 

And  ye  soft  winds,  and  ye  white-fingered  beams, 

Aid  ye  her  to  invest. 

Our  queenly  England,  in  all  circumstance 

Of  fair  and  feat  adorning  to  be  drest; 

Kirtled  in  jocund  green, 

Which  does  befit  a  Queen, 

And  like  cur  spirits  cast  forth  lively  gleams: 

And  let  her  robe  be  goodly  garlanded 

With  store  of  florets  white  and  florets  red. 

With  store  of  florets  white  and  florets  gold, 

A  fair  thing  to  behold; 

Intrailed  with  the  white  blossom  and  the  blue, 

A  seemly  thing  to  view! 


296  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

And  thereunto, 

Set  over  all  a  woof  of  lawny  air, 

From  her  head  wavering  to  her  sea-shod  feet, 

Which  shall  her  lovely  beauty  well  complete. 

And  grace  her  much  to  wear. 

Lo,  she  is  dressed,  and  lo,  she  cometh  forth, 

Our  stately  Lady  of  the  North; 

Lo,  how  she  doth  advance. 

In  her  most  sovereign  eye  regard  of  puissance, 

And  tiar'd  with  conquest  her  prevailing  brow. 

While  nations  to  her  bow. 

Come  hither,  proud  and  ancient  East, 

Gather  ye  to  this  Lady  of  the  North, 

And  sit  down  with  her  at  her  solemn  feast, 

Upon  this  culminant  day  of  all  her  days; 

For  ye  have  heard  the  thunder  of  her  goings-forth, 

And  wonder  of  her  large  imperial  ways. 

Let  India  send  her  turbans,  and  Japan 

Her  pictured  vests  from  that  remotest  isle 

Seated  in  the  antechambers  of  the  Sun: 

And  let  her  Western  sisters  for  a  while 

Remit  long  envy  and  disunion, 

And  take  in  peace 

Her  hand  behind  the  buckler  of  her  seas, 

'Gainst  which  their  wrath  has  splintered;   come,  for  she 

Her  hand  ungauntlets  in  mild  amity. 

Victoria!  Queen,  whose  name  is  victory, 
Whose  woman's  nature  sorteth  best  with  peace, 
Bid  thou  the  cloud  of  war  to  cease 


MISCELLANEOUS  ODES  297 

Which  ever  round  thy  wide-girt  empery 

Fumes,  like  to  smoke  about  a  burning  brand, 

Telling  the  energies  which  keep  within 

The  light  unquenched,  as  England's  light  shall  be; 

And  let  this  day  hear  only  peaceful  din. 

For,  queenly  woman,  thou  art  more  than  woman; 

Thy  name  the  often-struck  barbarian  shuns: 

Thou  art  the  fear  of  England  to  her  foemen. 

The  love  of  England  to  her  sons. 

And  this  thy  glorious  day  is  England's;  who 

Can  separate  the  two? 

She  joys  thy  joys  and  weeps  thy  tears, 

And  she  is  one  with  all  thy  moods; 

Thy  story  is  the  tale  of  England's  years. 

And  big  with  all  her  ills,  and  all  her  stately  goods. 

Now  unto  thee 

The  plenitude  of  the  glories  thou  didst  sow 

Is  garnered  up  in  prosperous  memory; 

And,  for  the  perfect  evening  of  thy  day, 

An  untumultuous  bliss,  serenely  gay. 

Sweetened  with  silence  of  the  after-glow. 

Nor  does  the  joyous  shout 

Which  all  our  lips  give  out 

Jar  on  that  quietude;  more  than  may  do 

A  radiant  childish  crew. 

With  well-accordant  discord  fretting  the  soft  hour, 

Whose  hair  is  yellowed  by  the  sinking  blaze 

Over  a  low-mouthed  sea.  Exult,  yet  be  not  twirled, 

England,  by  gusts  of  mere 

Blind  and  insensate  lightness;  neither  fear 

The  vastness  of  thy  shadow  on  the  world. 


298  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

If  in  the  East 

Still  strains  against  its  leash  the  unglutted  beast 

Of  War;  if  yet  the  cannon's  lip  be  warm; 

Thou,  whom  these  portents  warn  but  not  alarm, 

Feastest,  but  with  thy  hand  upon  the  sword, 

As  fits  a  warrior  race: 

Not  like  the  Saxon  fools  of  olden  days, 

With  the  mead  dripping  from  the  hairy  mouth, 

Wliile  all  the  South 

Filled  with  the  shaven  faces  of  the  Norman  horde. 


THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

As,  fore-announced  by  threat  of  flame  and  smoke, 

Out  of  the  night's  lair  broke 

The  sun  among  the  startled  stars,  whose  blood 

Looses  its  slow  bright  flood 

Beneath  the  radiant  onset  of  the  sun; 

So  crouches  he  anon, 

With  nostrils  breathing  threat  of  smoke  and  flame, 

Back  to  the  lairing  night  wherefrom  he  came. 

Say,  who  is  she. 

With  cloudy  battle  smoking  round  her  feet, 

That  goes  out  through  the  exit-doors  of  death; 

And  at  the  alternate  limit  of  her  path, 

Where  first  her  nascent  footsteps  troubled  day, 

Forgotten  turmoil  curls  itself  away? 

Who  is  she  that  rose 

Tumultuous,  and  in  tumult  goes? 


MISCELLANEOUS  ODES  299 

This  is  she 

That  rose  'midst  dust  of  a  down-tumbled  world, 

And  dies  with  rumour  on  the  air 

Of  preparation 

For  a  more  ample  devastation, 

And  death  of  ancient  fairness  no  more  fair. 

First  when  she  knew  the  day, 

The  holy  poets  sung  her  on  her  way: 

The  high,  clear  band  that  takes 

Its  name  from  heaven-acquainted  mountain-lakes; 

And  he 

That  like  a  star  set  in  Italian  sea; 

And  he  that  mangled  by  the  jaws  of  our 

Fierce  London,  from  all  frets 

Lies  balmed  in  Roman  violets; 

And  other  names  of  power, 

Too  recent  but  for  worship  and  regret, 

On  whom  the  tears  lie  wet. 

But  not  to  these 

She  gave  her  heart;  her  heart  she  gave 

To  the  blind  worm  that  bores  the  mold. 

Bloodless,  pertinacious,  cold, 

Unweeting  what  itself  upturns, 

The  seer  and  prophet  of  the  grave. 

It  reared  its  head  from  off  the  earth 

(Which  gives  it  life  and  gave  it  birth) 

And  placed  upon  its  eyeless  head  a  crown. 

Thereon  a  name  writ  new, 

'Science,'   erstwhile   with   ampler   meanings  known; 

And  all  the  peoples  in  their  turns 

Before  the  blind  worm  bowed  them  down. 


300  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Yet,  crowned  beyond  its  due, 

Working  dull  way  by  obdurate,  slow  degrees, 

It  is  a  thing  of  sightless  prophecies; 

And  glories,  past  its  own  conceit, 

Wait  to  complete 

Its  travail,  when  the  mounded  time  is  meet. 

Nor  measured,  fit  renown, 

When  that  hour  paces  forth, 

Shall  overlook  those  workers  of  the  North 

And  West,  those  patient  Darwins  who  forthdrew 

From  humble  dust  what  truth  they  knew. 

And  greater  than  they  knew,  not  knowing  all  they  knew. 

Yet  was  their  knowledge  in  its  scope  a  Might, 

Strong  and  true  souls  to  measure  of  their  sight. 

Behold  the  broad  globe  in  their  hands  comprest, 

As  a  boy  kneads  a  pellet,  till  the  East 

Looks  in  the  eyes  o'  the  West; 

And  as  guest  whispers  guest 

That  counters  him  at  feast. 

The  Northern  mouth 

Leans  to  the  attent  ear  of  the  blended  South. 

The  fur-skinned  garb  justling  the  Northern  Bear 

Crosses  the  threshold  where. 

With  linen  wisp  girt  on. 

Drowses  the  next-door  neighbour  of  the  sun. 

Such  their  laborious  worth 

To  change  the  old  face  of  the  wonted  earth. 

Nor  were  they  all  o'  the  dust;  as  witness  may 

Davy  and  Faraday; 

And  they 

Who  clomb  the  cars 


MISCELLANEOUS  ODES  301 

And  learned  to  rein  the  chariots  of  the  stars; 

Or  who  in  night's  dark  waters  dipt  their  hands 

To  sift  the  hid  gold  from  its  sands; 

And  theirs  the  greatest  gift,  who  drew  to  light 

By  their  sciential  might, 

The  secret  ladder,  wherethrough  all  things  climb 

Upward  from  the  primeval  slime. 

Nor  less  we  praise 

Him  that  with  burnished  tube  betrays 

The  multitudinous  diminutive 

Recessed  in  virtual  night 

Below  the  surface-seas  of  sight; 

Him  whose  enchanted  windows  give 

Upon  the  populated  ways 

Where  the  shy  universes  live 

Ambushed  beyond  the  unapprehending  gaze: 

The  dusted  anther's  globe  of  spiky  stars ; 

The  beetle  flashing  in  his  minute  mail 

Of  green  and  golden  scale; 

And  every  water-drop  a-sting  with  writhing  wars. 

The  unnoted  green  scale  cleaving  to  the  moist  earth's  face 

Behold  disclosed  a  conjugal  embrace, 

And  womb — 

Submitting  to  the  tomb — 

That  sprouts  its  lusty  issue:*  everywhere  conjoins 

Either  glad  sex,  and  from  unguessed-at  loins 

Breeds  in  an  opulent  ease 

The  liberal  earth's  increase; 

*  The  prothallus  of  the  fern,  for  example,  which  contains  in 
itself  the  two  sexes,  and  decays  as  the  young  fern  sprouts 
from  it. 


302  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Such  Valentine's  sweet  unsurmised  diocese. 

Nor,  dying  Lady,  of  the  sons 

Whom  proudly  owns 

Thy  valedictory  and  difficult  breath. 

The  least  are  they  who  followed  Death 

Into  his  obscure  fastnesses, 

Tracked  to  her  secret  lair  Disease — 

Under  the  candid-seeming  and  confederate  Day 

Venoming  the  air's  pure  lips  to  kiss  and  to  betray; 

Who  foiled  the  ancient  Tyrant's  grey  design 

Unfathomed  long,  and  brake  his  dusty  toils, 

Spoiling  him  of  his  spoils, 

And  man,  the  loud  dull  fly,  loosed  frcm  his  woven  line. 

Such  triumph  theirs  who  at  the  destined  term 

Descried  the  arrow  flying  in  the  day — 

The  age-long  hidden  Germ — 

And  threw  their  prescient  shield  before  its  deadly  way. 

Thou,  spacious  Century! 

Hast  seen  the  Western  knee 

Set  on  the  Asian  neck, 

The  dusky  Africa 

Kneel  to  imperial  Europe's  beck; 

The  West  for  her  permitted  while  didst  see 

Stand  rnistress-wise  and  tutelar 

To  the  grey  nations  dreaming  on  their  days  afar, 

From  old  forgotten  war 

Folding  hands  whence  has  slid  disused  rule; 

The  while,  unprescient,  in  her  regent  school 

She  shapes  the  ample  days  and  things  to  be, 

And  large  new  empery. 


MISCELLANEOUS  ODES  303 

Thence  Asia  sbrV  re  brought  to  bed 

Of  dominations  yet  undreamed; 

Narrow-eyed  Egypt  lift  again  the  head 

Whereon  the  far-seen  crown  Nilotic  gleamed. 

Thou'st  seen  the  Saxon  horde  whose  veins  run  brine, 

Spawned  of  the  salt  wave,  wet  with  the  salt  breeze, 

Their  sails  combine. 

Lash  their  bold  prows  together,  and  turn  swords 

Against  the  world's  knit  hordes; 

The  whelps  repeat  the  lioness'  roar  athwart  the  windy  seas. 

Yet  let  it  grieve,  grey  Dame, 

Thy  passing  spirit,  God  wot, 

Thou  wast  half-hearted,  wishing  peace,  but  not 

The  means  of  it.  The  avaricious  flame 

Thou'st  fanned,  which  thou  should'st  tame: 

Cluckd'st  thy  wide  brood  beneath  thy  mothering  plumes, 

And  coo'dst  them  from  their  fumes, 

Stretched  necks  provocative,  and  throats 

Ruffled  with  challenging  notes; 

Yet  all  didst  mar, 

Flattering  the  too-much-pampered  Boy  of  War: 

Whence  the  far-jetting  engine,  and  the  globe 

In  labour  with  her  iron  progeny, — 

Infernal  litter  of  sudden-whelped  deaths. 

Vomiting  venomous  breaths; 

The  growl  as  of  long  surf  that  draweth  back 

Half  a  beach  in  its  rattling  track. 

When  like  a  tiger-cat 

The  angry  rifle  spat 

Its  fury  in  the  opposing  foeman's  eyes; — 

These  are  thy  consummating  victories. 

For  this  hast  thou  been  troubled  to  be  wise! 


304  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

And  now  what  child  is  this  upon  thy  lap, 

Born  in  the  red  glow  of  relighted  war? 

That  draws  Bellona's  pap, 

— Fierce  foster-mother! — does  already  stare 

With  mimicked  dark  regard 

And  copied  threat  of  brow  whose  trick  it  took  from  her: 

Young  Century,  born  to  hear 

The  cannon  talking  at  its  infant  ear — 

The  Twentieth  of  Time's  loins,  since  that 

Which  in  the  quiet  snows  of  Bethlehem  he  begat. 

Ah!  with  forthbringing  such  and  so  ill-starred. 

After  the  day  of  blood  and  night  of  fate, 

Shall  it  survive  with  brow  no  longer  marred, 

Lip  no  more  wry  with  hate; 

With  all  thou  hadst  of  good, 

But  from  its  blood 

W^ashed  thine  hereditary  ill. 

Yet  thy  child  still? 


PEACE 

ON   THE   TREATY  IN  SOUTH   AFRICA  IN    1902 

Peace: — as  a  dawn  that  flares 

Within  the  brazier  of  the  barred  East, 

Kindling  the  ruinous  walls  of  storm  surceased 

To  rent  and  roughened  glares, 

After  such  night  when  lateral  wind  and  rain 

Torment  the  to-and-fro  perplexed  trees 

With  thwart  encounter;  which,  of  fixture  strong, 


MISCELLANEOUS  ODES  305 

Take  only  strength  from  the  endured  pain: 
And  throat  by  thoat  begin 
The  birds  to  make  adventure  of  sweet  din, 
Till  all  the  forest  prosper  into  song:  — 

Peace,  even  such  a  peace, 
(O  be  my  words  an  auspice!)  dawns  again 
Upon  our  England,  from  her  lethargies 
Healed  by  that  baptism  of  her  cleansing  pain. 

Ended,  the  long  endeavour  of  the  land: 

Ended,  the  set  of  manhood  towards  the  sand 

Of  thirsty  death ;  and  their  more  deadly  death. 

Who  brought  back  only  what  they  fain  had  lost, 

No  more  worth-breathing  breath, — 

Gone  the  laborious  and  use-working  hand. 

Ended,  the  patient  drip  of  women's  tears, 

Which  joined  the  patient  drip  of  faithful  blood 

To  make  of  blood  and  water  the  sore  flood 

That  pays  our  conquest's  costliest  cost. 

This  day,  if  fate  dispose. 

Shall  make  firm  friends  from  firm  and  firm-met  foes. 

And  now^.  Lord,  since  Thou  hast  upon  hell's  floor 

Bound,  like  a  snoring  sea,  the  blood-drowsed  bulk  of  War. 

Shall  we  not  cry,  on  recognising  knees, 

This  is  Thy  peace? 

If,  England,  it  be  l5ut  to  lay 

The  heavy  head  down,  the  old  heavy  way; 

Having  a  space  awakened  and  been  bold 

To  break  from  them  that  had  thee  in  the  snare, — 

Resume  the  arms  of  thy  false  Dalila,  Gold, 

Shameful  and  nowise  fair: 


3o6  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Forget  thy  sons  who  have  lain  down  in  bed 

With  Dingaan  and  old  dynasties,  nor  heed 

The  ants  that  build  their  empires  overhead; 

Forget  their  large  in  thy  contracted  deed. 

And  that  thou  stand'st  twice-pledged  to  being  great 

For  whom  so  many  children  greatly  bleed, 

Trusting  thy  greatness  with  their  deaths:  if  thou, 

England,  incapable  of  proffered  fate, 

See  in  such  deaths  as  these 

But  purchased  pledges  of  unhindered  mart. 

And  hirelings  spent  that  in  thy  ringed  estate 

For  some  space  longer  now 

Thou  mayst  add  gain  to  gain,  and  take  thine  ease, — 

God  hast  made  hard  thy  heart; 

Thou  hast  but  bought  thee  respite,  nor  surcease. 

Lord,  this  is  not  Thy  peace! 


But  wilt  thou,  England,  stand 

With  vigilant  heart  and  prescient  brain? — 

Knowing  there  is  no  peace 

Such  as  fools  deem,  of  equal-balanced  ease: — 

That  they  who  build  the  State 

Must,  like  the  builders  of  Jerusalem, 

The  trowel  in  their  hand. 

Work  with  the  sword  laid  ever  nigh  to  them. 

If  thou  hold  Honour  worthy  gain 

At  price  of  gold  and  pain ; 

And  all  thy  sail  and  cannon  somewhat  more 

Than  the  fee'd  watchers  of  the  rich  man's  store. 

If  thou  discern  the  thing  which  all  these  ward 

Is  that  imperishable  thing,  a  Name, 


MISCELLANEOUS  ODES  30: 

And  that  Name,  England,  which  alone  is  lord 

Where  myriad-armed  India  owns  with  awe 

A  few  white  faces;  uttered  forth  in  flame 

WTiere  circling  round  the  earth 

Has  English  battle  roared; 

Deep  in  mid-forest  African  a  Law; 

That  in  this  Name's  small  girth 

The  treasure  is,  thy  sword  and  navies  guard: 

If  thou  wilt  crop  the  specious  sins  of  ease, 

WTience  still  is  War's  increase, — 

Proud  flesh  which  asks  for  War,  the  knife  of  God, 

Save  to  thyself,  thyself  use  cautery; 

Wilt  stay  the  war  of  all  with  all  at  odd. 

And  teach  thy  jarring  sons 

Truth  innate  once, — 

That  in  the  whole  alone  the  part  is  blest  and  great. 

O  should  this  fire  of  war  thus  purge  away 

The  inveterate  stains  of  too-long  ease, 

And  yield  us  back  our  Empire's  clay 

Into  one  shoreless  State 

Compact  and  hardened  for  its  uses:  these 

No  futile  sounds  of  joyance  are  to-day; — 

Lord,  unrebuked  we  may 

Call  this  Thy  peace! 


And  in  this  day  be  not 

Wholly  forgot 

They  that  made  possible  but  shall  not  see 

Our  solemn  jubilee. 

Peace  most  to  them  who  lie 

Beneath  unnative  sky; 


3o8  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

In  whose  still  hearts  is  dipt 

Our  reconciling  script: 

Peace!   Lot  when  shouts  shall  start  the  housetop  bird, 

I^,t  *i<Af^*,'.  that  speak  not,  be  the  loudest  heard! 


CECIL  RHODES 

DIED  MARCH   26,    1902 

They  that  mis-said 

This  man  yet  living,  praise  him  dead. 

And  I  too  praise,  yet  not  the  baser  things 

Wherewith  the  market  and  the  tavern  rings. 

Not  that  high  things  for  gold, 

He  held,  were  bought  and  sold, 

That  statecraft's  means  approved  are  by  the  end; 

Not  for  all  which  commands 

The  loud  world's  clapping  hands, 

To  which  cheap  press  and  cheaper  patriots  bend; 

But  for  the  dreams. 

For  those  impossible  gleams 

He  half  made  possible;  for  that  he  was 

Visioner  of  vision  in  a  most  sordid  day: 

This  draws 

Back  to  me  Song  long  alien  and  astray. 

In  dreams  what  did  he  not. 

Wider  than  his  wide  deeds?  In  dreams  he  wrought 

What  the  old  world's  long  livers  must  in  act  forego. 

From  the  Zambesi  to  the  Limpopo 

He  the  many-languaged  land 


MISCELLANEOUS  ODES  309 

Took  with  his  large  compacting  hand 

And  pressed  into  a  nation:  'thwart  the  accurst 

And  lion-'larumed  ways,  . 

Where  the  lean-fingered  Thirst 

Wrings  at  the  throat,  and  Famine  strips  the  bone; 

A  tawny  land,  with  sun  at  sullen  gaze. 

And  all  above  a  cope  of  heated  stone; 

He  heard  the  shirted  miner's  rough  halloo 

Call  up  the  mosqued  Cairene;  barkened  clear 

The  Cairene's  far-off  summons  sounding  through 

The  sea's  long  noises  to  the  Capeman's  ear. 

He  saw  the  Teuton  and  the  Saxon  grip 
Hands  round  the  warded  world,  and  bid  it  rock, 
While  they  did  watch  its  cradle.  Like  a  ship 
It  swung,  whileas  the  cabined  inmates  slept, 
Secure  their  peace  was  kept, 
Such  arms  of  warranty  about  them  lock. 
Ophir*  he  saw,  her  long-ungazed-at  gold, 
Stirred  from  its  deep 

And  often-centuried  sleep. 

Wink  at  the  new  Sun  in  an  English  hold; 

England,  from  Afric's  swarty  loins 

Drawing  fecundity. 

Wax  to  the  South  and  North, 

To  East  and  West  increase  her  puissant  goings-forth, 

And  strike  young  emperies,  like  coins. 

In  her  own  recent  effigy. 

He  saw  the  three-branched  Teuton  hold  the  sides 

*  Rhodesia,  according  to  some  modern  views. 


310  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Of  the  round  world,  and  part  it  as  a  dish 

Whereof  to  each  his  wish 

The  amity  of  the  full  feast  decides. 

So  large  his  dreams,  so  little  come  to  act! 

Who  must  call  on  the  cannon  to  compact 

The  hard  Dutch-stubbomed  land, 

Seditious  even  to  such  a  potent  hand; 

Who  grasped  and  held  his  Ophir:  held,  no  less, 

The  Northern  ways,  but  never  lived  to  see 

The  wing-foot  messages 

Dart  from  the  Delta  to  the  Southern  Sea; 

Who,  confident  of  gold, 

A  leaner  on  the  statesman's  arts 

And  the  unmartial  conquests  of  the  marts, 

Died  with  the  sound  of  battle  round  him  rolled, 

And  rumour  of  battle  in  all  nations'  hearts; 

Dying,  saw  his  life  a  thing 

Of  large  beginnings;   and  for  young 

Hands  yet  untrained  the  harvesting. 

Amid  the  iniquitous  years  if  harvest  sprung. 

So  in  his  death  he  sowed  himself  anew; 

Cast  his  intents  over  the  grave  to  strike 

In  the  left  world  of  livers  living  roots, 

And,  banyan-like, 

From  his  one  tree  raise  up  a  wood  of  shoots. 

The  indestructible  intents  which  drew 

Their  sap  from  him 

Thus,  with  a  purpose  grim, 

Into  strange  lands  and  hostile  yet  he  threw, 


MISCELLANEOUS  ODES  311 

That  there  might  be 

From  him  throughout  the  earth  posterity: 

And  so  did  he — 

Like  to  a  smouldering  fire  by  wind-blasts  swirled — 

His  dying  embers  strew  to  kindle  all  the  world. 

Yet  not  for  this  I  praise 

The  ending  of  his  strenuous  days; 

No,  not  alone  that  still 

Beyond  the  grave  stretched  that  imperial  WiU: 

But  that  Death  seems 

To  set  the  gateway  wide  to  ampler  dreams. 

Yea,  yet  he  dreams  upon  Matoppo  hill, 

The  while  the  German  and  the  Saxon  see, 

And  seeing,  wonder, 

The  spacious  dreams  take  shape  and  be. 

As  at  compulsion  of  his  sleep  thereunder. 

Lo,  young  America  at  the  Mother's  knee, 

Unlearning  centuried  hate. 

For  love's  more  blest  extreme; 

And  this  is  his  dream. 

And  sure  the  dream  is  great. 

Lo,  Colonies  on  Colonies, 

The  furred  Canadian  and  the  digger's  shirt. 

To  the  one  Mother's  skirt 

Cling,  in  the  lore  of  Empire  to  be  wise; 

A  hundred  wheels  a-turn 

All  to  one  end — that  England's  sons  may  learn 

The  glory  of  their  sonship,  the  supreme 

Worth  that  befits  the  heirs  of  such  estate. 

All  these  are  in  his  dream. 

And  sure  the  dream  is  great. 


312  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

So,  to  the  last 

A  visionary  vast, 

The  aspirant  soul  would  have  the  body  lie 

Among  the  hills  immovably  exalt 

As  he  above  the  crowd  that  haste  and  halt, 

'Upon  that  hill  which  I 

Called  "View  of  All  the  World"  ';  to  show  thereby 

That  still  his  unappeasable  desires 

Beneath  his  feet  surveyed  the  peoples  and  empires. 

Dreams,  haply  of  scant  worth, 

Bound  by  our  little  thumb-ring  of  an  earth; 

Yet  an  exalted  thing 

By  the  gross  search  for  food  and  raimenting. 

So  in  his  own  Matoppos,  high,  aloof. 

The  elements  for  roof. 

Claiming  his  mountain  kindred,  and  secure, 

Within  that  sepulture 

Stem  like  himself  and  unadorned. 

From  the  loud  multitude  he  ruled  and  scorned, 

There  let  him  cease  from  breath, — 

Alone  in  crowded  life,  not  lonelier  in  death. 


OF  NATURE:   LAUD  AND  PLAINT 

Lo,  here  stand  I  and  Nature,  gaze  to  gaze, 

And  I  the  greater.  Couch  thou  at  my  feet, 

Barren  of  heart,  and  beautiful  of  ways. 

Strong  to  weak  purpose,  fair  and  brute-brained  beast. 

I  am  not  of  thy  fools 

Who  goddess  thee  with  impious  flatteries  sweet, 

Stolen  from  the  little  Schools 


MISCELLANEOUS  ODES  313 

Which  cheeped  when  that  great  mouth  of  Rydal  ceased. 

A  Httle  suffer  that  I  try 

What  thou  art,  Child,  and  what  am  I — 

Thy  younger,  forward  brother,  subtle  and  small, 

As  thou  art  gross  and  of  thy  person  great  withal. 

Behold,  the  child 

With  Nature  needs  not  to  be  reconciled. 

I'he  babe  that  keeps  the  womb 

Questions  not  if  with  love 

The  life,  distrained  for  its  uses,  come; 

Nor  we  demand,  then,  of 

The  Nature  who  is  in  us  and  around  us. 

Whose  life  doth  compass,  feed,  and  bound  us. 

What  prompteth  her  to  bless 

With  gifts,  unknown  for  gifts,  our  innocent  thanklessness. 

Mother  unguessed  is  she,  to  whom 

We  still  are  in  the  womb. 

Then  comes  the  incidental  day 

When  our  young  mouth  is  weaned;  and  from  her  arms  we 

stray. 
'Tis  over;  not,  mistake  me  not. 
Those  divine  gleams  forgot 
Which  one  with  a  so  ampler  mouth  hath  sung; 
Not  of  these  sings 
My  weak  endeavouring  tongue; 
But  of  those  simpler  things 
Less  heavenful:  the  unstrained  integrity 
Moving  most  natively. 
As  the  glad  customed  lot 
Of  birthright  privilege  allows, 
Through  the  domestic  chambers  of  its  Father's  house; 


314  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

The  virgin  hills,  provoking  to  be  trod; 
The  cloud,  the  stream,  the  tree, 
The  allowing  bosom  of  the  warm-breathed  sod — 
No  alien  and  untemptable  delight. 
The  wonder  in  a  wondrous  sight 
Was  wondrous  simple,  as  our  simple  God — 
Yet  not  dulled,  daily,  base. 

But  sweet  and  safe  possession  as  our  mother's  face, 
Which  we  knew  not  for  sweet,  but  sweetly  had ; 
For  who  says — 'Lo,  how  sweet!'  has  first  said — 'Lo,  how 
sad!' 

This,  not  to  be  regained  with  utmost  sighs, 

This  unconsidered  birthright,  is  made  void 

As  Edom's,  and  destroyed. 

Grown  man,  we  now  despise 

Thee,  known  for  woman,  nor  too  wise; 

As  still  the  mother  human 

Is  known  for  not  too  wise,  and  even  woman. 

We  take  ingrateful,  for  a  blinded  while, 

Thine  ignorant,  sweet  smile. 

Yield  maids  their  eyes  unto  their  lovers'  gaze?— 

Why,  so  dost  thou.  And  is  their  gracious  favour 

Doled  but  to  draw  us  on  through  warped  ways, 

Delays  behind  delays. 

To  tempt  with  scent. 

And  to  deny  the  savour? — 

Ah,  Lady,  if  that  vengeance  were  thy  bent, 

Woman  should  'venge  thee  for  thy  scorned  smiles: 

Her  ways  are  as  thy  ways, 

Her  wiles  are  as  thy  wiles. 


MISCELLANEOUS  ODES  315 

No  second  joy;  one  only  first  and  over, 

Which  all  life  wanders  from  and  looks  back  to; 

For  sweet  too  sweet,  till  sweet  is  past  recover: — 

Let  bitter  Love  and  every  bitter  lover 

Say,  Love's  not  bitter,  if  I  speak  not  true. 

The  first  kiss  to  repeat! 

The  first  'Mine  only  Sweet!' 

Thine  only  sweet  that  sweetness,  very  surely, 

And  a  sour  truth  thou  spakest,  if  thou  knew. 

That  first  kiss  to  restore 

By  Nature  given  so  frankly,  taken  so  securely! 

To  knit  again  the  broken  chain;  once  more 

To  run  and  be  to  the  Sun's  bosom  caught; 

Over  life's  bended  brows  prevail 

With  laughters  of  the  insolent  nightingale, 

Jocund  of  heart  in  darkness;  to  be  taught 

Once  more  the  daisy's  tale, 

And  hear  each  sun-smote  buttercup  clang  bold, 

A  beaten  gong  of  gold; 

To  call  delaying  Phoebus  up  with  chanticleer; 

Once  more,  once  more  to  see  the  Dawn  unfold 

Her  rosy  bosom  to  the  married  Sun; 

Fulfilled  with  his  delight, 

Perfected  in  sweet  fear — 

Sweet  fear,  that  trembles  for  sweet  joy  begun 

As  slowly  drops  the  swathing  night. 

And  all  her  bared  beauty  lies  warm-kissed  and  won! 

No  extreme  rites  of  penitence  avail 
To  lighten  thee  of  knowledge,  to  impart 
Once  more  the  language  of  the  daisy's  tale, 
And  that  doctorial  Art 


I 


3i6  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Of  knowing-not  to  thine  oblivious  heart! 

Of  all  the  vain 

Words  of  man's  mouth,  there  are  no  words  so  vain 

A?  'once  mere'  and  'again'! 

Hope  not  of  Nature;  she  nor  gives  nor  teaches; 

She  suffers  thee  to  take 

But  what  thine  own  hand  reaches, 

And  can  itself  make  sovereign  for  thine  ache. 

Ah,  hope  not  her  to  heal 

The  ills  she  cannot  feel. 

Or  dry  with  many-businessed  hand  the  tear 

Wliich  never  yet  was  weak 

In  her  unfretted  eyes,  on  her  uncarked  cheek. 

O  heart  of  Nature!  did  man  ever  hear 

Thy  yeamed-for  word,  supposed  dear? — 

His  pleading  voice  returns  to  him  alone; 

He  hears  none  other  tone. 

No,  no; 

Take  back,  O  poets,  your  praises  little-wise. 

Nor  fool  weak  hearts  to  their  unshunned  distress, 

Who  deem  that  even  after  your  device 

They  shall  lie  down  in  Nature's  holiness: 

For  it  was  never  so; 

She  has  no  hands  to  bless. 

Her  pontiff  thou;  she  looks  to  thee, 

O  man;  she  has  no  use,  nor  asks  not,  for  thy  knee, 

Which  but  bewilders  her, 

Poor  child;  nor  seeks  thy  fealty, 

And  those  divinities  thou  wouldst  confer. 

If  thou  wouldst  bend  in  prayer, 

Arise,  pass  forth;  thou  must  look  otherwhere. 


MISCELLANEOUS  ODES  317 

Thy  travail  all  is  null; 

This  Nature  fair, 

This  gate  is  closed,  this  Gate  Beautiful, — 

No  man  shall  go  in  there. 

Since  the  Lord  God  did  pass  through  it; 

'Tis  sealed  unto  the  King, 

The  King  Himself  shall  sit 

Therein,  with  them  that  are  His  following. 

Go,  leave  thy  labour  null; 

Ponder  this  thing. 

Lady  divine! 

That  giv'st  to  men  good  wine. 

And  yet  the  best  thou  hast 

And  nectarous,  keepest  to  the  last, 

And  bring'st  not  forth  before  the  Master's  sign: — 

How  few  there  be  thereof  that  ever  taste, 

Quaffing  in  brutish  haste, 

Without  distinction  of  thy  great  repast! 

For  ah,  this  Lady  I  have  much  miscalled; 

Nor  fault  in  her,  but  in  thy  wooin^r  is; 

And  her  allowed  lovers  that  are  installed, 

Find  her  right  frank  of  her  sw^eet  heart,  y-wis. 

Then  if  thy  wooing  thou  aright  wouldst  'gin, 

Lo  here  the  door;   strait  and  rough-shapen  'tis, 

And  scant  they  be  that  ever  here  make  stays, 

But  do  the  lintel  miss, 

In  dust  of  these  blind  days. 

Knock,  tarry  thou,  and  knock, 

Although  it  seem  but  rock: 

Here  is  the  door  where  thou  must  enter  in 

To  heart  of  Nature  and  of  Woman  too. 


3i8  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

And  olden  things  made  new. 

Stand  at  the  door  and  knock; 

For  it  unlocked 

Shall  all  locked  things  unlock, 

And  win  but  here,  thou  shalt  to  all  things  win, 

And  thou  no  more  be  mocked. 

For  know,  this  Lady  Nature  thou  hast  left. 

Of  whom  thou  fear'st  thee  reft. 

This  Lady  is  God's  Daughter,  and  she  lends 

Her  hand  but  to  His  friends, 

But  to  her  Father's  friends  the  hand  which  thou  wouldst 

win; 
Then  enter  in, 
And  here  is  that  which  shall  for  all  make  mends. 


SONNETS 

AD  AMICAM 


Dear  Dove,  that  bear'st  to  my  sole-labouring  ark 

The  olive-branch  of  so  long  wished  rest, 
When  the  white  solace  glimmers  through  my  dark 

Of  nearing  wings,  what  comfort  in  my  breast! 
Oh,  may  that  doubted  day  not  come,  not  come, 

When  you  shall  fail,  my  heavenly  messenger, 
And  drift  into  the  distance  and  the  doom 

Of  all  my  impermissible  things  that  were! 
Rather  than  so,  now  make  the  sad  farewell, 

Which  yet  may  be  with  not  too-pained  pain, 
Lest  I  again  the  acquainted  tale  should  tell 

Of  sharpest  loss  that  pays  for  shortest  gain. 

Ah,  if  my  heart  should  hear  no  white  wings  thrill 
Against  its  waiting  window,  open  still! 

II* 

When  from  the  blossoms  of  the  noiseful  day 

Unto  the  hive  of  sleep  and  hushed  gloom 
Throng  the  dim-winged  dreams— what  dreams  are  they 

That  with  the  wildest  honey  hover  home? 

♦Both  in  its  theme  and  in  its  imagery  this  sonnet  was  writ- 
ten as  a  variation  of  Mrs.  Meynell's  verses  'At  Night' 


320  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Oh,  they  that  have  from  many  thousand  thoughts 
Stolen  the  strange  sweet  of  ever-blossomy  you, 
A  thousand  fancies  in  fair-coloured  knots 

Which  you  are  inexhausted  meadow  to. 
Ah,  what  sharp  heathery  honey,  quick  with  pain. 

Do  they  bring  home!  It  holds  the  night  awake 
To  hear  their  lovely  murmur  in  my  brain; 
And  Sleep's  wings  have  a  trouble  for  your  sake. 
Day  and  you  dawn  together:  for  at  end 
With  the  first  light  breaks  the  first  thought- 
'My  friend!' 


Ill 

O  FRIEND,  who  mak'st  that  mis- spent  word  of  'friend' 

Sweet  as  the  low  note  that  a  summer  dove 
Fondles  in  her  warm  throat!  And  shall  it  end, 

Because  so  swift  on  friend  and  friend  broke  love? 
Lo,  when  all  words  to  honour  thee  are  spent, 

And  flung  a  bold  stave  to  the  old  bald  Time 
Telling  him  that  he  is  too  insolent 

Who  thinks  to  rase  thee  from  my  heart  or  rhyme; 
Whereof  to  one  because  thou  life  hast  given, 

The  other  yet  shall  give  a  life  to  thee, 
Such  as  to  gain,  the  prowest  swords  have  striven, 

And  compassed  weaker  immortality: 

These  spent,  my  heart  not  stinteth  in  her  breast 
Her   sweet   'Friend!    friend!' — one   note,    and   loves 
it  best. 


SONNETS  32 

IV 

No,  no,  it  cannot  be,  it  cannot  be, 

Because  this  love  of  close-affined  friends 
In  its  sweet  sudden  ambush  toiled  me 

So  swift,  that  therefore  all  as  swift  it  ends. 
For  swift  it  was,  yet  quiet  as  the  birth 

Of  smoothest  Music  in  a  Master's  soul, 
Whose  mild  fans  lapsing  as  she  slides  to  earth 

Waver  in  the  bold  arms  which  dare  control 
Her  from  her  lineal  heaven;  yea,  it  was  still 

As  the  young  Moon  that  bares  her  nightly  breast, 
And  smiles  to  see  the  Babe  earth  suck  its  fill. 

O  Halcyon!  was  thine  auspice  not  of  rest? 
Shall  this  proud  verse  bid  after-livers  see 
How  friends  could  love  for  immortality? 


When  that  part  heavenliest  of  all-heavenly  you 

First  at  my  side  did  breathe  its  blossomy  air, 
What  lovely  wilderment  alarmed  me  through ! 

On  what  ambrosial  effluence  did  I  fare. 
And  comforts  Paradisal!  What  gales  came. 

Through  ports  for  one  divinest  space  ajar, 
Of  ranked  lilies  blown  into  a  flame 

By  watered  banks  where  walks  of  young  Saints  are! 
One  attent  space,  my  trembling  locks  did  rise 

Swayed  on  the  wind,  in  planetary  wheel 
Of  intervolving  sweet  societies. 

From  waved  vesture  and  from  fledged  heel 
Odorous  aspersion  trailing.  Then,  alone 
In  her  eyes'  ventral  glory,  God  took  throne. 


.    i 


32  2  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

TO  A  CHILD 

Whenas  my  Life  shall  time  with  funeral  tread 

The  heavy  death-drum  of  the  beaten  hours, 
Following,  sole  mourner,  mine  own  manhood  dead, 

Poor  forgot  corse,  where  not  a  maid  strows  flowers; 
When  I  you  love  am  no  more  I  you  love. 

But  go  with  unsubservient  feet,  behold 
Your   dear   face   through   changed   eyes,    all  .grim    change 
prove; — 

A  new  man,  mocked  with  misname  of  old; 
When  shamed  Love  keeps  his  ruined  lodging,  elf! 

When,  ceremented  in  mouldering  memory, 
Myself  is  hearsed  underneath  myself, 

And  I  am  but  the  monument  of  me:  — 

O  to  that  tomb  be  tender  then,  which  bears 
Only  the  name  of  him  it  sepulchres! 

HERMES 

Soothsay.  Behold,  with  rod  twy-serpented, 

Hermes  the  prophet,  twining  in  one  power 
The  woman  with  the  man.  Upon  his  head 

The  cloudy  cap,  wherewith  he  hath  in  dower 
The  cloud's  own  virtue — change  and  counterchange, 

To  show  in  light,  and  to  withdraw  in  pall, 
As  mortal  eyes  best  bear.  His  lineage  strange 

From  Zeus,  Truth's  sire,  and  maiden  May — the  all 
Illusive  Nature.  His  fledged  feet  declare 

That  'tis  the  nether  self  transdeified, 


SONNETS  323 

\nd  the  thrice-fumaced  passions,  which  do  bear 
The  poet  Olympusward.  In  him  allied 

Both  parents  clasp;  and  from  the  womb  of  Nature 
Stem  Truth  takes  flesh  in  shows  of  lovely  feature. 


HOUSE  OF  BONDAGE 


When  I  perceive  Love's  heavenly  reaping  still 

Regard  perforce  the  clouds'  vicissitude, 
That  the  fixed  spirit  loves  not  when  it  will. 

But  craves  its  seasons  of  the  flawful  blood; 
When  J  perceive  that  the  high  poet  doth 

Oft  voiceless  stray  beneath  the  uninfluent  stars, 
That  even  Urania  of  her  kiss  is  loth, 

And  Song's  brave  wings  fret  on  their  sensual  bars; 
When  I  perceive  the  fullest-sailed  sprite 

Lag  at  most  need  upon  the  lethed  seas, 
The  provident  captainship  oft  voided  quite. 

And  lamed  lie  deep-draughted  argosies; 

I  scorn  myself,  that  put  for  such  strange  toys 
The  wit  of  man  to  purposes  of  boys. 


II 

The  spirit's  ark  sealed  with  a  little  clay 
Was  old  ere  Memphis  grew  a  memory ;  * 

The  hand  pontifical  to  break  aw^ay 

That  seal  what  shall  surrender?  Not  the  sea 

Which  did  englut  great  Egypt  and  his  war, 


324  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Nor  all  the  desert-drowned  sepulchres. 
Love's  feet  are  stained  with  clay  and  travel-sore, 

And  dusty  are  Song's  lucent  wing  and  hairs. 
O  Love,  that  must  do  courtesy  to  decay, 

Eat  hasty  bread  standing  with  loins  up-girt, 
How  shall  this  stead  thy  feet  for  their  sore  way? 
Ah,  Song,  what  brief  embraces  balm  thy  hurt! 
Had  Jacob's  toil  full  guerdon,  casting  his 
Twice-seven  heaped  years  to  burn  in  Rachel's  kiss? 


THE  HEART 

To  my  Critic  who  had  objected  to  the  phrase — 
*The  heart's  burjzing  floors.* 

I 

The  heart  you  hold  too  small  and  local  thing 

Such  spacious  terms  of  edifice  to  bear. 
And  yet,  since  Poesy  first  shook  out  her  wing, 

The  mighty  Love  has  been  impalaced  there; 
That  has  she  given  him  as  his  wide  demesne. 

And  for  his  sceptre  ample  empery; 
Against  its  door  to  knock  has  Beauty  been 

Content;  it  has  its  purple  canopy, 
A  dais  for  the  sovereign  lady  spread 

Of  many  a  lover,  who  the  heaven  would  think 
Too  low  an  awning  for  her  sacred  head. 

*  The  Ark  of  the  Egyptian  temple  was  sealed  with  clay,  which 
the  Pontiff-King  broke  when  he  entered  the  inner  shrine  to  offer 
worship. 


SONNETS  325 

The  world,  from  star  to  sea,  cast  down  its  brink — 
Yet  shall  that  chasm,  till  He  Who  these  did  build 
An  awful  Curtius  make  Him,  yawn  unfilled. 


II 

O  NOTHING,  in  this  corporal  earth  of  man, 

That  to  the  imminent  heaven  of  his  high  soul 
Responds  with  colour  and  with  shadow,  can 

Lack  correlated  greatness.  If  the  scroll 
Where  thoughts  lie  fast  in  spell  of  hieroglj^h 

Be  mighty  through  its  mighty  habitants; 
If  God  be  in  His  Name;  grave  potence  if 

The  sounds  unbind  of  hieratic  chants; 
All's  vast  that  vastness  means.  Nay,  I  affirm 

Nature  is  whole  in  her  least  things  exprest. 
Nor  know  we  with  what  scope  God  builds  the  worm. 

Our  towns  are  copied  fragments  from  our  breast; 
And  all  man's  Babylons  strive  but  to  impart 
The  grandeurs  of  his  Babylonion  heart. 


DESIDERIUM  INDESIDERATUM 

O  GAIN  that  lurk'st  ungained  in  all  gain! 
O  love  we  just  fall  short  of  in  all  love! 
O  height  that  in  all  heights  art  still  above! 
O  beauty  that  dost  leave  all  beauty  pain! 
Thou  unpossessed  that  mak'st  possession  vain. 
See  these  strained  arms  which  fright  the  simple  air, 
And  say  what  ultimate  fairness  holds  thee,  Fair! 
They  girdle  Heaven,  and  girdle  Heaven  in  vain: 


326  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

They  shut,  and  lo!  but  shut  in  their  unrest. 
Thereat  a  voice  in  me  that  voiceless  was: — 
•Whom  seekest  thou  through  the  unmarged  arcane* 
And  not  discern 'st  to  thine  own  bosom  prest?" 
I  looked.  My  clasped  arms  athwart  my  breast 
Framed  the  august  embraces  of  the  Cross. 


LOVE'S  VARLETS 

Love,  he  is  nearer  (though  the  moralist 

Of  rule  and  line  cry  shame  on  me),  more  near 
To  thee  and  to  the  heart  of  thee,  be't  wist, 

Who  sins  against  thee  even  for  the  dear 
Lack  that  he  hath  of  thee;  than  who,  chill-wrapt 

In  thy  light-thought-on  customed  livery. 
Keeps  all  thy  laws  with  formal  service  apt, 

Save  that  great  law  to  tremble  and  to  be 
Shook  to  his  heart-strings  if  there  do  but  pass 

The  rumour  of  thy  pinions.  Such  one  is 
Thy  varlet,  guerdoned  with  the  daily  mass 

That  feed  on  th}^  remainder-meats  of  bliss. 

More  hath  he  of  thy  bosom,  whose  slips  of  grace 
Fell  through  despair  of  thy  close-gracious  face. 


NON  PAX— EXPECTATIO 

Hush  !  'tis  the  gap  between  two  lightnings.  Room 
Is  none  for  peace  in  this  thou  callest  peace. 
This  breathing-while  wherein  the  breathings  cease. 
The  pulses  sicken,  hearkening  through  Ihe  gloom. 


SONNETS  327 

Afar  the  thunders  of  a  coming  doom 
Ramp  on  the  cowering  winds.  Lo!  at  the  dread, 
Thy  heart's  tomb  yawns  and  renders  up  its  dead, — 
The  hopes  'gainst  hope  embalmed  in  its  womb. 

Canst  thou  endure,  if  the  pent  flood  o'erflows? 

Who  is  estated  heir  to  constancy? 

Behold,  I  hardly  know  if  I  outlast 

The  minute  underneath  whose  heel  I  lie; 

Yet  I  endure,  have  stayed  the  minute  passed, 

Perchance  may  stay  the  next.  Who  knows,  who  knows? 


NOT  EVEN  IN  DREAM 

This  love  is  crueller  than  the  other  love:  • 

We  had  the  Dreams  for  Tryst,  we  other  pair; 
But  here  there  is  no  we; — not  anywhere 

Returning  breaths  of  sighs  about  me  move. 
No  wings,  even  of  the  stuff  which  fancy  wove, 

Perturb  Sleep's  air  with  a  responsive  flight 
When  mine  sweep  into  dreams.  My  soul  in  fright 

Circles  as  round  its  widowed  nest  a  dove. 

One  shadow  but  usurps  another's  place: 
And,  though  this  shadow  more  enthralling  is, 

Alas,  it  hath  no  lips  at  all  to  miss! 

I  have  not  even  that  former  poignant  bliss. 

That  haunting  sweetness,  that  forlorn  sad  trace, 
The  phantom  memory  of  a  vanished  kiss. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS 


A  HOLLOW  WOOD 

This  is  the  mansion  built  for  me 

By  the  sweating  centuries; 

Roofed  with  intertwined  tree, 

Woofed  with  green  for  my  princelier  ease. 

Here  I  lie  with  my  world  about  me, 

Shadowed  off  from  the  world  without  me, 

Even  as  my  thoughts  embosom  me 

From  wayside  humanity. 

And  here  can  only  enter  who 

Delight  me — the  unpriced  few. 

Come  you  in,  and  make  you  cheer. 

It  draweth  toward  my  banquet-time. 

Would  you  win  to  my  universe. 

Your  thoughts  must  turn  in  the  wards  of  rhyme. 

Loose  the  chain  of  linked  verse. 

Stoop  your  knowledge,  and  enter  here! 

Here  cushioned  ivies  you  invite 

To  fall  to  with  appetite. 

What  for  my  viands? — Dainty  thoughts. 

What  for  my  brows? — Forget-me-nots. 

What  for  my  feet? — A  bath  of  green. 

My  servers? — Phantasies  unseen. 


328 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS  329 

What  shall  I  find  me  for  feasting  dress? — 

Your  white  disused  childlikeness. 

What  hid  music  will  laugh  to  my  calls? — 

An  orgy  of  mad  bird-bacchanals. 

Such  meat,  such  music,  such  coronals! 

From  the  cask  which  the  summer  sets  afiow 

Under  the  roof  of  my  raftered  house, 

The  birds  above,  w^e  below. 

We  carouse  as  they  carouse. 

Or  have  but  the  ear  the  ear  within, 

And  you  may  hear,  if  you  hold  you  mute, 

You  may  hear  by  my  amulet. 

The  wind-like  keenness  of  violin, 

The  enamelled  tone  of  shallow  flute. 

And  the  furry  richness  of  clarinet. 

These  are  the  things  shall  make  you  cheer, 

If  you  will  grace  my  banquet-time. 

Would  you  win  to  my  universe. 

Your  thought  must  turn  in  the  wards  of  rhyme. 

Loose  the  chain  of  linked  verse, 

Stoop  your  knowledge,  and  enter  here! 


TO  DAISIES 

Ah,  drops  of  gold  in  whitening  flame 
Burning,  we  know  your  lovely  name — 
Daisies,  that  little  children  puU! 
Like  all  weak  things,  over  the  strong 
Ye  do  not  know  your  power  for  wrong, 
And  much  abuse  your  feebleness. 
Weak  maids,  with  flutter  of  a  dress. 


330  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Increase  most  heavy  tyrannies; 
And  vengeance  unto  heaven  cries 
For  multiplied  injustice  of  dove-eyes. 
'   Daises,  that  little  children  pull, 
As  ye  are  weak,  be  merciful ! 

0  hide  your  eyes!  they  are  to  me 
Beautiful  insupportably. 

Or  be  but  conscious  ye  are  fair, 

And  I  your  loveliness  could  bear; 

But,  being  fair  so  without  art. 

Ye  vex  the  silted  memories  of  my  heart! 

As  a  pale  ghost  yearning  strays 

With  sundered  gaze, 

'Mid  corporal  presences  that  are 

To  it  impalpable — such  a  bar 

Sets  you  more  distant  than  the  morning-stan 

Such  wonder  is  on  you  and  amaze, 

1  look  and  marvel  if  I  be 
Indeed  the  phantom,  or  are  ye? 
The  light  is  on  your  innocence 
Which  fell  from  me. 

The  fields  ye  still  inhabit  whence 
My  world-acquainted  treading  strays, 
The  country  where  I  did  commence; 
And  though  ye  shine  to  me  so  near, 
So  close  to  gross  and  visible  sense, 
Between  us  lies  impassable  year  on  year. 
To  other  time  and  far-off  place 
Belongs  your  beauty:  silent  thus, 
Though  to  others  naught  you  tell, 
To  me  your  ranks  are  rumorous 
Of  an  ancient  miracle. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS  33 

Vain  does  my  touch  your  petals  graze, 

I  touch  you  not;  and,  though  ye  blossom  here, 

Your  roots  are  fast  in  alienated  days. 

Ye  there  are  anchored,  while  Time's  stream 

Has  swept  me  past  them:  your  white  ways 

And  infantile  delights  do  seem 

To  look  in  on  me  like  a  face, 

Dead  and  sweet,  come  back  through  dream, 

With  tears,  because  for  old  embrace 

It  has  no  arms.  These  hands  did  toy. 

Children,  with  you  when  I  was  child, 

And  in  each  other's  eyes  we  smiled: 

Not  yours,  not  yours  the  grievous-fair 

Apparelling 

With  which  you  wet  mine  eyes;  you  wear, 

Ah  me,  the  garment  of  the  grace 

I  wove  you  when  I  was  a  boy; 

O  mine,  and  not  the  year's,  your  stolen  Spring! 

And  since  ye  wear  it. 

Hide  your  sweet  selves!  I  cannot  bear  it. 

For,  when  ye  break  the  cloven  earth 

With  your  young  laughter  and  endearment, 

No  blossomy  carillon  'tis  of  mirth 

To  me;  I  see  my  slaughtered  joy 

Bursting  its  cerement. 


TO  THE  SINKING  SUN 

How  graciously  thou  wear'st  the  yoke 

Of  use  that  does  not  fail! 
The  grasses,  like  an  anchored  smoke, 


332  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Ride  in  the  bending  gale; 
This  knoll  is  snowed  with  blosmy  manna, 
And  fire-dropt  as  a  seraph's  mail. 

Here  every  eve  thou  stretchest  out 

Untarnishable  wing, 
And  marvellously  bring'st  about 

Newly  an  olden  thing; 
Nor  ever  through  like-ordered  heaven 

Moves  largely  thy  grave  progressing. 

Here  every  eve  thou  goest  down 

Behind  the  self-same  hill, 
Nor  ever  twice  alike  go'st  down 

Behind  the  self-same  hill; 
Nor  like-ways  is  one  flame-sopped  flower 

Possessed  with  glory  past  its  will. 

Not  twice  alike!   I  am  not  blind. 

My  sight  is  live  to  see; 
And  yet  I  do  complain  of  thy 

Weary  variety. 
O  Sun!  I  ask  thee  less  or  more, 

Change  not  at  all,  or  utterly! 

O  give  me  unprevisioned  new. 
Or  give  to  change  reprieve! 

For  new  in  me  is  olden  too. 
That  I  for  sameness  grieve. 

O  flowers!  O  grasses!  be  but  once 
The  grass  and  flower  of  yester-eve! 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS  333 

Wonder  and  sadness  are  the  lot 
Of  change:  thou  yield'st  mine  eyes 

Grief  of  vicissitude,  but  not 
Its  penetrant  surprise. 

Immutability  mutable 

Burthens  my  spirit  and  the  skies. 

O  altered  joy,  all  joyed  of  yore, 
Plodding  in  un conned  ways! 

0  grief  grieved  out,  and  yet  once  more 
A  dull,  new,  staled  amaze! 

1  dream,  and  all  was  dreamed  before, 
Or  dream  I  so?  the  dreamer  says. 


A  MAY  BURDEN 

Through  meadow-ways  as  I  did  tread, 
The  corn  grew  in  great  lustihead, 
And  hey!   the  beeches  burgeoned. 

By  Goddes  fay,  by  Goddes  fay! 
It  is  the  month,  the  jolly  month, 
It  is  the  jolly  month  of  May. 

God  ripe  the  wines  and  corn,  I  say, 
And  wenches  for  the  marriage-day. 
And  boys  to  teach  love's  comely  play. 
By  Goddes  fay,  by  Goddes  fay! 
It  is  the  month,  the  jolly  month, 
It  is  the  jolly  month  of  May. 


334  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

As  I  went  down  by  lane  and  lea, 
The  daisies  reddened  so,  pardie! 
'Blushets!'  I  said,  'I  well  do  see, 

By  Goddes  fay,  by  Goddes  fay! 
The  thing  ye  think  of  in  this  month, 
Heigho!  this  jolly  month  of  May.' 

As  down  I  went  by  rye  and  oats, 
The  blossoms  smelt  of  kisses;   throats 
Of  birds  turned  kisses  into  notes; 

By  Goddes  fay,  by  Goddes  fay! 
The  kiss  it  is  a  growing  flower, 
I  trow,  this  jolly  month  of  May! 

God  send  a  mouth  to  every  kiss. 
Seeing  the  blossom  of  this  bliss 
By  gathering  doth  grow,  certes! 

By  Goddes  fay,  by  Goddes  fay! 
Thy  brow-garland  pushed  all  aslant 
Tells— but  I  tell  not,  wanton  May! 

The  first  two  stanzas  are  from  a  French  original— I  have  for- 
gotten what. 


JULY  FUGITIVE 

Can  you  tell  me  where  has  hid  her 

Pretty  Maid  July? 
I  would  swear  one  day  ago 

She  passed  by, 
I  would  swear  that  I  do  know 

The  blue  bliss  of  her  eye: 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS  335 

*Tarry,  maid,  maid,'  I  bid  her; 

But  she  hastened  by. 
Do  you  know  where  she  has  hid  her. 

Maid  July? 

Yet  in  truth  it  needs  must  be 

The  flight  of  her  is  old; 
Yet  in  truth  it  needs  must  be. 

For  her  nest,  the  earth,  is  cold. 
No  more  in  the  pooled  Even 

Wade  her  rosy  feet, 
Dawn-flakes  no  more  plash  from  them 

To  poppies  'mid  the  wheat. 
She  has  muddied  the  day's  oozes 

With  her  petulant  feet; 
Scared  the  clouds  that  floated, 

As  sea-birds  they  were, 
Slow  on  the  ccerule 

Lulls  of  the  air. 
Lulled  on  the  luminous 

Levels  of  air: 
She  has  chidden  in  a  pet 

All  her  stars  from  her; 
Now  they  wander  loose  and  sigh 

Through  the  turbid  blue, 
Now  they  wander,  weep,  and  cry — 

Yea,  and  I  too — 
*Where  are  you,  sweet  July, 

Where  are  you?' 


336  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Who  hath  beheld  her  footprints, 

Or  the  pathway  she  goes? 
Tell  me,  wind,  tell  me,  wheat? 

Which  of  you  knows? 
Sleeps  she  swathed  in  the  flushed  Arctic 

Night  of  the  rose? 
Or  lie  her  limbs  like  Alp-glow 

On  the  lily's  snows? 
Gales,  that  are  all-visitant, 

Find  the  runaway; 
And  for  him  who  findeth  her 

(I  do  charge  you  say) 
I  will  throw  largesse  of  broom 

Of  this  summer's  mintage, 
I  will  broach  a  honey-bag 

Of  the  bee's  best  vintage. 
Breezes,  wheat,  flowers  sweet, 

None  of  them  knows! 
How^  then  shall  we  lure  her  back 

From  the  way  she  goes? 
For  it  were  a  shameful  thing, 

Saw  we  not  this  comer 
Ere  Autumn  camp  upon  the  fields 

Red  with  rout  of  Summer. 

When  the  bird  quits  the  cage, 
We  set  the  cage  outside, 

With  seed  and  with  water. 
And  the  door  wide. 

Haply  we  may  win  it  so 
Back  to  abide. 

Hang  her  cage  of  Earth  out 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS  337 

O'er  Heaven's  sunward  wall, 
Its  four  gates  open,  winds  in  watch 

By  reined  cars  at  all; 
Relume  in  hanging  hedgerows 

The  rain-quenched  blossom, 
And  roses  sob  their  tears  out 

On  the  gale's  warm  heaving  bosom; 
Shake  the  lilies  till  their  scent 

Over-drip  their  rims; 
That  our  runaway  may  see 

We  do  know  her  whims: 
Sleek  the  tumbled  waters  out 

For  her  travelled  limbs; 
Strew  and  smooth  blue  night  thereon: 

There  will — O  not  doubt  her! — 
The  lovely  sleepy  lady  lie, 

With  all  her  stars  about  her! 


FIELD-FLOWER 

A   PHANTASY 

God  took  a  fit  of  Paradise-wind, 

A  slip  of  coerule  weather, 
A  thought  as  simple  as  Himself, 

And  ravelled  them  together. 
Unto  His  eyes  He  held  it  there, 
To  teach  it  gazing  debonair 

With  memory  of  what,  perdie, 
A  God's  young  innocences  were. 
His  fingers  pushed  it  through  the  sod— 


338  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

It  came  up  redolent  of  God, 
Garrulous  of  the  eyes  of  God 
To  all  the  breezes  near  it; 
Musical  of  the  mouth  of  God 
To  all  had  ears  to  hear  it; 
Mystical  with  the  mirth  of  God, 
That  glow-like  did  ensphere  it. 
And — 'Babble!  babble!  babble!'  said; 

Til  tell  the  whole  world  one  day!' 

There  was  no  blossom  half  so  glad, 

Since  sun  of  Christ's  first  Sunday. 

A  poet  took  a  flaw  of  pain. 

A  hap  of  skiey  pleasure, 
A  thought  had  in  his  cradle  lain. 

And  mingled  them  in  measure. 
That  chrism  he  laid  upon  his  eyes, 
And  lips,  and  heart,  for  euphrasies. 

That  he  might  see,  feel,  sing,  perdie, 
The  simple  things  that  are  the  wise. 
Beside  the  flower  he  held  his  ways-. 
And  leaned  him  to  it  gaze  for  gaze—  " 
He  took  its  meaning,  gaze  for  gaze, 

As  baby  looks  on  baby; 
Its  meaning  passed  into  his  gaze, 

Native  as  meaning  may  be; 
He  rose  with  all  his  shining  gaze 

As  children's  eyes  at  play  be. 

And — 'Babble!  babble!  babble!'  said; 

'I'll  tell  the  whole  world  one  day!' 
There  was  no  poet  half  so  glad, 
Since  man  grew  God  that  Sunday, 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS  339 

TO  A  SNOWFLAKE 

What  heart  could  have  thought  you? — 

Past  our  devisal 

(O  filigree  petal!) 

Fashioned  so  purely, 

Fragilely,  surely, 

From  what  Paradisal 

Imagineless  metal, 

Too  costly  for  cost? 

Who  hammered  you,  wrought  you, 

From  argentine  vapour? — 

'God  was  my  shaper. 

Passing  surmisal, 

He  hammered,  He  wrought  me, 

From  curled  silver  vapour, 

To  lust  of  His  mind: — 

Thou  could 'st  not  have  thought  me! 

So  purely,  so  palely, 

Tinily,  surely. 

Mightily,  frailly, 

Insculped  and  embossed, 

With  His  hammer  of  wind, 

And  His  graver  of  frost.' 


A  QUESTION 

O  BIRD  with  heart  of  wassail, 
That  toss  the  Bacchic  branch. 

And  slip  your  shaken  music, 
An  elfin  avalanche; 


340  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Come  tell  me,  O  tell  me, 

My  poet  of  the  blue! 
What's  your  thought  of  me,  Sweet? — - 

Here's  my  thought  of  you. 

A  small  thing,  a  wee  thing, 

A  brown  fleck  of  naught; 
With  winging  and  singing 

That  who  could  have  thought? 

A  small  thing,  a  wee  thing, 

A  brown  amaze  withal. 
That  fly  a  pitch  more  azure 

Because  you're  so  small. 

Bird,  I'm  a  small  thing — 

My  angel  descries; 
With  winging  and  singing 

That  who  could  surmise? 

Ah,  small  things,  ah,  wee  things, 

Are  the  poets  all. 
Whose  tour's  the  more  azure 

Because  they're  so  small. 

The  angels  hang  watching 

The  tiny  men-things:  — 
'The  dear  speck  of  flesh,  see, 

With  such  daring  wings! 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS  34i 

'Come,  tell  us,  O  tell  us, 

Thou  strange  mortality! 
What's  thy  thought  of  us,  Dear?— 

Here's  our  thought  of  thee.' 


'Alack!   you  tall  angels, 

I  can't  think  so  high! 
I  can't  think  what  it  feels  like 

Not  to  be  L' 

Come  tell  me,  O  tell  me, 

My  poet  of  the  blue! 
What's  your  thought  of  me,  Sweet? — 

Here's  my  thought  of  you. 


THE  CLOUD'S  SWAN-SONG 

There  is  a  parable  in  the  pathless  cloud, 

There's  pi-ophecy  in  heaven, — they  did  not  lie. 

The  Chaldee  shepherds,— sealed  from  the  proud. 

To  cheer  the  weighted  heart  that  mates  the  seeing  eye. 

A  lonely  man,  oppressed  with  lonely  ills, 

And  all  the  glory  fallen  from  my  song. 

Here  do  I  walk  among  the  windy  hills; 

The  wind  and  I  keep  both  one  monotoning  tongue. 

Like  grey  clouds  one  by  one  my  songs  upsoar 
Over  my  soul's  cold  peaks;  and  one  by  one 
They  loose  their  little  rain,  and  are  no  more; 
And  whether  well  or  ill,  to  tell  me  there  is  none. 


342  FRANCIS  THOMPSON  S  POEMS 

For  'tis  an  alien  tongue,  of  alien  things, 
From  all  men's  care,  how  miserably  apart! 
Even  my  friends  say:  'Of  what  is  this  he  sings?' 
And  barren  is  my  song,  and  barren  is  my  heart. 

For  who  can  work,  unwitting  his  work's  worth? 
Better,  meseems,  to  know  the  work  for  naught. 
Turn  my  sick  course  back  to  the  kindly  earth, 
And  leave  to  am.pler  plumes  the  jetting  tops  of  thought. 

And  visitations  that  do  often  use 

Remote,  unhappy,  inauspicious  sense 

Of  doom,  and  poets  widowed  of  their  muse, 

And  what  dark  'gan,  dark  ended,  in  me  did  commence. 

I  thought  of  spirit  wTonged  by  mortal  ills. 

And  my  flesh  rotting  on  my  fate's  dull  stake; 

And  how  self-scorned  they  the  bounty  fills 

Of  others,  and  the  bread,  even  of  their  dearest,  take. 

I  thought  of  Keats,  that  died  in  perfect  time. 
In  predecease  of  his  just-sickening  song; 
Of  him  that  set,  wrapt  in  his  radiant  rhyme. 
Sunlike  in  sea.  Life  longer  had  been  life  too  long. 

But  I,  exanimate  of  quick  Poesy, — 

O  then  no  more  but  even  a  soulless  corse! 

Nay,  my  Delight  dies  not;  'tis  I  should  be 

Her  dead,  a  stringless  harp  on  which  she  had  no  force. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS  343 

Of  my  wild  lot  I  thought;  from  place  to  place, 

Apollo's  song-bowed  Scythian,  I  go  on; 

Making  in  all  my  home,  with  pliant  ways, 

But,  provident  of  change,  putting  forth  root  in  none. 

Now,  with  starved  brain,  sick  body,  patience  galled 

With  fardels  even  to  wincing;  from  fair  sky 

Fell  sudden  little  rain,  scarce  to  be  called 

A  shower,  which  of  the  instant  was  gone  wholly  by. 

What  cloud  thus  died  I  saw  not;  heaven  was  fair. 
Methinks  my  angel  plucked  my  locks:   I  bowed 
My  spirit,  shamed;  and  looking  in  the  air: — 
'Even  so,'  I  said,  'even  so,  my  brother  the  good  Cloud?' 

It  was  a  pilgrim  of  the  fields  of  air, 

Its  home  was  allwheres  the  wind  left  it  rest. 

And  in  a  little  forth  again  did  fare, 

And  in  all  places  was  a  stranger  and  a  guest. 

It  harked  all  breaths  of  heaven,  and  did  obey 
With  sweet  peace  their  uncomprehended  wills; 
It  knew  the  eyes  of  stars  which  made  no  stay, 
And  with  the  thunder  walked  upon  the  lonely  hills. 

And  from  the  subject  earth  it  seemed  to  scorn, 

It  drew  the  sustenance  whereby  it  grew 

Perfect  in  bosom  for  the  married  Morn, 

And  of  his  life  and  light  full  as  a  maid  kissed  new. 


344  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Its  also  darkness  of  the  face  withdrawn, 

And  the  long  waiting  for  the  little  light, 

So  long  in  life  so  little.  Like  a  fawn 

It  fled  with  tempest  breathing  hard  at  heel  of  flight; 

And  having  known  full  East,  did  not  disdain 

To  sit  in  shadow  and  oblivious  cold, 

Save  what  all  loss  doth  of  its  loss  retain. 

And  who  hath  held  hath  somewhat  that  he  still  must  hold. 

Right  poet!  who  thy  Tightness  to  approve, 
Having  all  liberty,  didst  keep  all  measure, 
And  with  a  firmament  for  ranging,  move 
But  at  the  heavens'  uncomprehended  pleasure. 

With  amplitude  unchecked,  how  sweetly  thou 
Didst  wear  the  ancient  custom  of  the  skies, 
And  yoke  of  used  prescription;  and  thence  how 
Find  gay  variety  no  license  could  devise! 

As  we  the  quested  beauties  better  wit 

Of  the  one  grove  our  own  than  forests  great, 

Restraint,  by  the  delighted  search  of  it. 

Turns  to  right  scope.  For  lovely  moving  intricate 

Is  put  to  fair  devising  in  the  curb 
Of  ordered  limit;  and  all-changeful  Hermes 
Is  Terminus  as  well.  Yet  we  perturb 
Our    souls    for    latitude,    whose    strength    in    bound    and 
term  is. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS  345 

How  far  am  I  from  heavenly  liberty, 

That  play  at  policy  with  change  and  fate, 

Who  should  my  soul  from  foreign  broils  keep  free, 

In  the  fast-guarded  frontiers  of  its  single  state! 

Could  I  face  firm  the  Is,  and  with  To-be 

Trust  Heaven;  to  Heaven  commit  the  deed,  and  do; 

In  power  contained,  calm  in  infirmity. 

And  fit  myself  to  change  with  virtue  ever  new; 

Thou  hadst  not  shamed  me,  cousin  of  the  sky. 
Thou  wandering  kinsman,  that  didst  sweetly  live 
Unnoted,  and  unnoted  sweetly  die, 
Weeping  more  gracious  song  than  any  I  can  weave; 

Which  these  gross-tissued  words  do  sorely  wrong. 
Thou  hast  taught  me  on  powerlessness  a  power; 
To  make  song  wait  on  life,  not  life  on  song; 
To  hold  sweet  not  too  sweet,  and  bread  for  bread  though 
sour; 

By  law  to  wander,  to  be  strictly  free. 

With  tears  ascended  from  the  heart ':^  sad  sea, 

Ah,  such  a  silver  song  to  Death  could  7 

Sing,  Pain  would  list,  forgetting  Pain  to  be, 

And  Death  would  tarry  marvelling,  and  forget  to  die! 


OF  MY  FRIEND 

The  moonlight  cloud  of  her  invisible  beauty, 

Shook  from  the  torrent  glory  of  her  soul 
In  aery  spray,  hangs  round  her;  love  grows  duty, 


346  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

If  you  that  angel-populous  aureole 

Have  the  glad  power  to  feel; 

As  all  our  longings  kneel 
To  the  intense  and  cherub-winged  stole 
Orbing  a  painted  Saint:  and  through  control 

Of  this  sweet  faint 

Veil,  my  unguessing  Saint 
Celestial  ministrations  sheds  which  heal. 

5jC  ^  5^C  Jji 

Now,  Friend,  short  sweet  outsweetening  sharpest  woesi 

In  wintry  cold  a  little,  little  flame — 
So  much  to  me  that  little! — ^here  I  close 
This  errant  song.  O  pardon  its  much  blame! 

Now  my  grey  day  grows  bright 

A  little  ere  the  night; 
Let  after-livers  who  may  love  my  name. 
And  gauge  the  price  I  paid  for  dear-bought  fame, 

Know  that  at  end, 

Pain  was  well  paid,  sweet  Friend, 
Pain  was  well  paid  which  brought  me  to  your  sight. 


TO  MONICA:  AFTER  NINE  YEARS 

In  the  land  of  flag-lilies, 
Where  burst  in  golden  clangours 
The  joy-bells  of  the  broom, 
You  were  full  of  willy-nillies, 
Pets,  and  bee-like  angers: 
Flaming  like  a  dusky  poppy, 
In  a  wrathful  bloom. 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS  347 

You  were  full  of  sweet  and  sour. 
Like  a  dish  of  strawberries 
Set  about  with  curd. 
In  your  petulant  foot  was  power, 
In  your  wilful  innocences, 
Your  wild  and  fragrant  word. 
O,  was  it  you  that  sweetly  spake, 
Or  I  that  sweetly  heard? 

Yellow  w^ere  the  wheat-ways, 
The  poppies  were  most  red; 
And  all  your  meet  and  feat  ways. 
Your  sudden  bee-like  snarlings, — 
Ah,  do  you  remember, 
Darling  of  the  darlings? 
Or  is  it  but  an  ember, 
A  rusted  peal  of  joy-bells, 
Their  golden  buzzings  dead? 

Now  at  one,  and  now  at  two, 

Swift  to  pout  and  swift  to  woo, 

The  maid  I  knew: 

Still  I  see  the  dusked  tresses —  ^ 

But  the  old  angers,  old  caresses? 

Still  your  eyes  are  autumn  thunders, 

But  where  are  you,  child,  you? 

This  your  beauty  is  a  script 
Writ  with  pencil  brightest-dipt — • 
Oh,  it  is  the  fairest  scroll 
For  a  young,  departed  soul!— 
Thus  you  say: 


348  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

'Thrice  three  years  ago  to-day> 
There  was  one 

Shall  no  more  beneath  the  sun 
Darkle,  fondle,  featly  play. 
If  to  think  on  her  be  gloom, 
Rejoice  she  has  so  rich  a  tomb  1 ' 

But  there's  he — 
Ask  thou  not  who  it  may  be!  — 
That,  until  Time's  boughs  are  bare, 
Shall  be  unconsoled  for  her. 


A  DOUBLE  NEED 

{To  W—) 

Ah,  gone  the  days  when  for  undying  kindness 

I  still  could  render  you  undying  song! 

You  yet  can  give,  but  I  can  give  no  more; 

Fate,  in  her  extreme  blindness, 

Has  wrought  me  so  great  wrong. 

I  am  left  poor  indeed; 

Gone  is  my  sole  and  amends-making  store, 

And  I  am  needy  with  a  double  need. 

Behold  that  I  am  like  a  fountained  nymph, 

Lacking  her  customed  lymph, 

The  longing  parched  in  stone  upon  her  mouth, 

Unwatered  of  its  ancient  plenty.  She 

(Remembering  her  irrevocable  streams), 

A  Thirst  made  marble,  sits  perpetually 

With  sundered  lips  of  still-memorial  drouth. 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS  349 

GRIEF'S  HARMONICS 

At  evening,  when  the  lank  and  rigid  trees, 

To  the  mere  forms  of  their  sweet  da\'-selves  drying. 

On  heaven's  blank  leaf  seem  pressed  and  flattened; 

Or  rather,  to  my  sombre  thoughts  replying, 

Of  plumes  funereal  the  thin  effigies; 

That  hour  when  all  old  dead  things  seem  most  dead, 

And  their  death  instant  most  and  most  undying. 

That  the  flesh  aches  at  them;  there  stirred  in  me 

The  babe  of  an  unborn  calamity, 

Ere  its  due  time  to  be  delivered. 

Dead  sorrow  and  sorrow  unborn  so  blent  their  pain, 

That  which  more  present  v^as  were  hardly  said, 

But  both  more  now  than  any  Now  can  be 

My  soul  like  sackcloth  did  her  body  rend, 

And  thus  with  Heaven  contend:  — 

'Let  pass  the  chalice  of  this  coming  dread. 

Or  that  fore-drained  O  bid  me  not  re-drain!' 

So  have  I  asked,  who  know  my  asking  vain; 

Woe  against  woe  in  antiphon  set  over. 

That  grief's  soul  transmigrates,  and  lives  again, 

And  in  new  pang  old  pang's  incarnated. 


MEMORAT  MEMORIA 

Come  you  living  or  dead  to  me,  out  of  the  silt  of  the  Past, 
With  the  sweet  of  the  piteous  first,  and  the  shame  of  the 

shameful  last? 
Come  with  your  dear  and  dreadful  face  through  the  passes 

of  Sleep, 
The  terrible  mask,  and  the  face  it  masked — the  face  you  did 

not  keep? 


350  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

You  are  neither  two  nor  one — I  would  you  were  one  or 

two, 
For  your  awful   self   is  embalmed  in   the   fragrant  self  I 

knew: 
And  Above  may  ken,  and  Beneath  may  ken,  what  I  mean  by 

these  words  of  whirl, 
But  by  my  sleep  that  sleepeth  not, — O  Shadow  of  a  Girl  I  — 
Naught  here  but  I  and  my  dreams  shall  know  the  secret 

of  this  thing: — 
For  ever  the  songs  I  sing  are  sad  with  the  songs  I  never 

sing, 
Sad  are  sung  songs,  but  how  more  sad  the  songs  we  dare 

not  sing! 

Ah,  the  ill  that  we  do  in  tenderness,  and  the  hateful  horror 

of  love! 
It  has  sent  more  souls  to  the  unslaked  Pit  than  it  ever 

will  draw  above. 
I  damned  you,  girl,  with  my  pity,  who  had  better  by  far 

been  thwart, 
And  drave  you  hard  on  the  track  to  hell,  because  I  was 

gentle  of  heart. 
I  shall  have  no  comfort  now  in  scent,  no  ease  in  dew,  for 

this; 
I  shall  be  afraid  of  daffodils,  and  rose-buds  are  amiss; 
You  have  made  a  thing  of  innocence  as  shameful  as  a  sin, 
I  shall  never  feel  a  girl's  soft  arms  without  horror  of  the 

skin. 
My  child!  what  was  it  that  I  sowed,  that  I  so  ill  should 

reap? 
You  have  done  this  to  me.  And  I,  what  I  to  you? — It  lies 

with  Sleep. 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS  55 1 

NOCTURN 

I  WALK,  I  only, 

Not  I  only  wake; 

Nothing  is,  this  sweet  night, 

But  doth  couch  and  wake 

For  its  love's  sake; 

Everything,  this  sweet  night, 

Couches  with  its  mate. 

For  whom  but  for  the  stealthy-visitant  sun 

Is  the  naked  moon 

Tremulous  and  elate? 

The  heaven  hath  the  earth 

Its  own  and  all  apart; 

The  hushed  pool  holdeth 

A  star  to  its  heart. 

You  may  think  the  rose  sleepeth, 

But  though  she  folded  is, 

The  wind  doubts  her  sleepmg; 

Not  all  the  rose  sleeps. 

But  smiles  in  her  sweet  heart 

For  crafty  bliss. 

The  wind  lieth  with  the  rose. 

And  when  he  stirs,  she  stirs  in  her  repose: 

The  wind  hath  the  rose, 

And  the  rose  her  kiss. 

Ah,  mouth  of  me! 

Is  it  then  that  this 

Seemeth  much  to  thee? — 

I  wander  only. 

The  rose  hath  her  kiss. 


352  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

HEAVEN  AND  HELL 

'Tis  said  there  were  no  thought  of  hell, 

Save  hell  were  taught;   that  there  should  be 
A  Heaven  for  all's  self-credible. 

Not  so  the  thing  appears  to  me. 
Tis  Heaven  that  lies  beyond  our  sights, 

And  hell  too  possible  that  proves; 
For  all  can  feel  the  God  that  smites, 

But  ah,  how  few  the  God  that  loves! 

'CHOSE  VUE' 

A  Metrical  Caprice 

Up  she  rose,  fair  daughter — well  she  was  graced, 
As  a  cloud  her  going,  stept  from  her  chair. 
As  a  summer-soft  cloud  in  her  going  paced, 
Down  dropped  her  riband-band,  and  all  her  waving  hair 
Shook  like  loosened  music  cadent  to  her  waist; — 
Lapsing  like  music,  wavery  as  water, 
Slid  to  her  waist. 

ST  MONICA 

At  the  Cross  thy  station  keeping 
With  the  mournful  Mother  weeping, 
Thou,  unto  the  sinless  Son, 
Weepest  for  thy  sinful  one. 
Blood  and  water  from  His  side 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS  353 

Gush;  in  thee  the  streams  divide: 
From  thine  eyes  the  one  doth  start, 
But  the  other  from  thy  heart. 

Mary,  for  thy  sinner,  see, 
To  her  Sinless  mourns  with  thee; 
Could  that  Son  the  son  not  heed, 
For  whom  two  such  mothers  plead? 
So  thy  child  had  baptism  twice. 
And  the  whitest  from  thine  eyes. 

The  floods  lift  up,  lift  up  their  voice, 
With  a  many- watered  noise! 
Down  the  centuries  fall  those  sweet 
Sobbing  waters  to  our  feet, 
And  our  laden  air  still  keeps 
Murmur  of  a  Saint  that  weeps. 

Teach  us  but,  to  grace  our  prayers, 
Such  divinity  of  tears, — 
Earth  should  be  lustrate  again 
With  contrition  of  that  rain: 
Till  celestial  floods  o'er-rise 
The  high  tops  of  Paradise. 


MARRIAGE  IN  TWO  MOODS 

I 

Love  that's  loved  from  day  to  day 

Loves  itself  unto  decay: 

He  that  eats  one  daily  fruit 


354  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Shrivels  hunger  at  the  root. 
Daily  pleasure  grows  a  task; 
Daily  smiles  become  a  mask. 
Daily  growth  of  unpruned  strength 
Expands  to  feebleness  at  length. 
Daily  increase  thronging  fast 
Must  devour  itself  at  last. 
Daily  shining,  even  content 
Would  with  itself  grow  discontent; 
And  the  sun's  life  witnesseth 
Daily  dying  is  not  death. 
So  Love  loved  from  day  to  day 
Loves  itself  into  decay. 


II 

Love  to  daily  uses  wed 
Shall  be  sweetly  perfected. 
Life  by   repetition   grows 
Unto  its  appointed  close: 
Day  to  day  fulfils  one  year — 
Shall  not  Love  by  Love  wax  dear? 
All  piles  by  repetition  rise — 
Shall  not  then  Love's  edifice? 
Shall  not  Love,  too,  learn  his  writ, 
Like  Wisdom,  by  repeating  it? 
By  the  oft-repeated  use 
All  perfections  gain  their  thews; 
And  so,  with  daily  uses  wed, 
Love,  too,  shall  be  perfected. 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS  3SS 

ALL  FLESH 

I  DO  not  need  the  skies' 
Pomp,  when  I  would  be  wise; 
For  pleasaunce  nor  to  use 
Heaven's  champaign  when  I  muse. 
One  grass-blade  in  its  veins 
Wisdom's  whole  flood  contains: 
Thereon  my  foundering  mind 
Odyssean  fate  can  And. 

O  little  blade,  now  vaunt 
Thee,  and  be  arrogant! 
Tell  the  proud  sun  that  he 
Sweated  in  shaping  thee; 
Night,  that  she  did  unvest 
Her  mooned  and  argent  breast 
To  suckle  thee.  Heaven  fain 
Yearned  over  thee  in  rain, 
And  with  wide  parent  wing 
Shadowed  thee,  nested  thing, 
Fed  thee,  and  slaved  for  thy 
Impotent  tyranny. 
Nature's  broad  thews  bent 

Meek  for  thy  content. 

Mastering  littleness 

Which  the  wise  heavens  confess, 

The  frail ity  which  doth  draw 

Magnipotence  to  its  law — 

These  were,  O  happy  one,  these 

Thy  laughing  puissances! 

Be  confident  of  thought, 

Seeing  that  thou  art  naught; 


356  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

And  be  thy  pride  thou'rt  all 

Delectably  safe  and  small. 

Epitomized  in  thee 

Was  the  mystery 

Which  shakes  the  spheres  conjoint — • 

God  focussed  to  a  point. 

All  thy  fine  mouths  shout 

Scorn  upon  dull-eyed  doubt. 

Impenetrable  fool 

Is  he  thou  canst  not  school 

To  the  humility 

By  which  the  angels  see! 

Unfathomably  framed 

Sister,  I  am  not  shamed 

Before  the  cherubin 

To  vaunt  my  flesh  thy  kin. 

My  one  hand  thine,  and  one 

Imprisoned  in  God's  own, 

I  am  as  God;  alas, 

And  such  a  god  of  grass! 

A  little  root  clay-caught, 

A  wind,  a  flame,  a  thought. 

Inestimably  naught! 

THE  KINGDOM  OF  GOD 

'In  no  Strange  Land' 

O  WORLD  invisible,  we  view  thee, 
O  world  intangible,  we  touch  thee, 
O  world  unknowable,  we  know  thee, 
Inapprehensible,  we  clutch  thee! 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS  357 

Does  the  fish  soar  to  find  the  ocean, 
The  eagle  plunge  to  find  the  air- 
That  we  ask  of  the  stars  in  motion 
If  they  have  rumour  of  thee  there? 

Not  where  the  wheeling  systems  darken, 
And  our  benumbed  conceiving  soars!  — 
The  drift  of  pinions,  would  we  hearken, 
Beats  at  our  ovm  clay-shuttered  doors. 

The  angels  keep  their  ancient  places;— 
Turn  but  a  stone,  and  start  a  wing! 
'Tis  ye,  'tis  your  estranged  faces, 
That  miss  the  many-splendoured  thing. 

But  (when  so  sad  thou  canst  not  sadder) 
Cryj—and  upon  thy  so  sore  loss 
Shall  shine  the  traffic  of  Jacob's  ladder 
Pitched  betwixt  Heaven  and  Charing  Cross. 

Yea,  in  the  night,  my  Soul,  my  daughter, 
Cry,— clinging  Heaven  by  the  hems; 
And  lo,  Christ  walking  on  the  water 
Not  of  Gennesareth,  but  Thames! 

THE  SINGER  SAITH  OF  HIS  SONG 

The  touches  of  man's  modern  speech 

Perplex  her  unacquainted  tongue; 
There  seems  through  all  her  songs  a  sound 

Of  falling  tears.  She  is  not  young. 


358  FRANCIS  THOMPSON'S  POEMS 

Within  her  eyes'  profound  arcane 
Resides  the  glory  of  her  dreams; 

Behind  her  secret  cloud  of  hair. 
She  sees  the  Is  beyond  the  Seems. 

Her  heart  sole-towered  in  her  steep  spirit, 
Somewhat  sweet  is  she,  somewhat  wan; 

And  she  sings  the  songs  of  Sion 
By  the  streams  of  Babylon. 


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A   MODERN   BOOK   OF   CRITICISMS    (8i) 

Edited  with  an  Introduction  by 
LUDWIG  LEWISOHN 

ANDERSON,  SHERWOOD   (1876-        ) 

Winesburg,  Ohio   (104) 
ANDREYEV,  LEONID   (1871-        ) 

The  Seven  That  Were  Hanged  and  The  Red  Laugh  (45) 

Introduction   by   THOMAS    SELTZER 

ATHERTON,  GERTRUDE   (1859-        ) 
Rezanov   (71) 

Introduction  by  WILLIAM  MARION  REEDY 

BALZAC,  HONORE  DE  (1799-1850) 

Short  Stories   (40) 
BAUDELAIRE,  PIERRE  CHARLES  (1821-1867) 

His  Prose  and  Poetry  (70) 
BEARDSLEY,  THE  ART  OF  AUBREY   (1872-1898) 

64  Black  and  White  Reproductions   (42) 
Introduction  by  ARTHUR  SYMONS 

BEERBOHM,  MAX   (1872-        ) 
Zuleika   Dobson    (50) 

Introduction  by  FRANCIS   HACKETT 

BEST  GHOST  STORIES  (73) 

Introduction  by  ARTHUR  B.  REEVE 
BEST  HUMOROUS  AMERICAN  SHORT  STORIES  (87) 

Edited  with  an  Introduction  by 
ALEXANDER  JESSUP 

BEST  RUSSIAN   SHORT   STORIES   (18) 

Edited  with  an  Introduction  by 
THOMAS  SELTZER 

BLAKE,  WILLIAM    (1757-1827) 
Poems   (91) 

Edited  with  notes  by 
WILLIAM  BUTLER  YEATS 

BUTLER,  SAMUEL   (1835-1902) 

The  Way  of  All  Flesh  (13) 
CARPENTER,   EDWARD    (1844-        ) 

Love's  Coming:  of  Age  ( ^i) 


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CHEKHOV,  ANTON   (1860-1904) 

Rothschild's  Fiddle  and  Thirteen  Other  Stories  (31) 

CHESTERTON,  G.  K.    (1874-        ) 

The   Man  Who   Was   Thursday    (35) 
CONTEMPORARY  SCIENCE   (99) 

Edited  with  an  Introduction  by 
Dr.  BENJ.  HARROW 

CRANE,  STEPHEN    (1870-        ) 
Men,  Women  and  Boats   (102) 

Introduction  by  VINCENT  STARRETT 

D'ANNUNZIO,  GABRIELE  (1864-        ) 

The    Flame    of   Life    (65) 

DAUDET,  ALPHONSE  (1840-1897) 

Sapho   (85) 

In  same  volume  with  Prevost's  "  Manon  Lescaut " 

DOSTOYEVSKY,  FEDOR   (1821-1881) 

Poor  People   (10) 

Introduction  by  THOMAS  SELTZER 

DOWSON,  ERNEST   (1867-1900) 

Poems  and  Prose  (74) 

Introduction   by   ARTHUR    SYMONS 

DUNSANY,  LORD  (Edward  John  Plunkett)    (1878-        ) 
A  Dream.er's  Tales   (34) 

Introduction  by  PADRIAC  COLUM 
Book  of  Wonder  (43) 

ELLIS,  HAVELOCK   (1859-        ) 
The  New  Spirit  (95) 

Introduction  by  the  author 

EVOLUTION  IN  MODERN  THOUGHT  (37) 

A  Symposium,  including  Essays  by  Haeckel,  Thomson, 
Weismann,  etc. 

FLAUBERT,  GUSTAVE  (1821-1880) 
Madame  Bovary  (28) 
The  Temptation  of  St.  Anthony  (92) 
Translated  by  LAFCADIO  HEARN 

FLEMING,  MARJORIE   (1803-1811) 
Marjorie  Fleming's  Book  (93) 

Introduction  by  CLIFFORD  SMYTH 


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FRANCE,  ANATOLE  (1844-   ) 

At  the  Sign  of  the  Reine  Pedaque   (98) 

Introduction  by  JAMES    BRANCH   CABELL 
The  Crime  of  Sylvestre  Bonnard  (22) 

Introduction  by  LAFCADIO  HEARN 
The  Red  Lily  (7) 

FRENSSEN,  GUST  A  V   (1863-        ) 

John   Uhl    (loi) 

Introduction  by  LUDWIG  LEWISOHN 

GAUTIER,  THEOPHILE  (1811-1872) 
Mlie.  de  Maupin  (53) 

GEORGE,  W.  L.    (1882-        ) 

A  Bed  of  Roses  (75) 

Introduction  by  EDGAR  SALTUS 

GILBERT,  W.  S.   (1836-1911) 

The   Mikado,   The   Pirates   of  Penzance,   lolanthe,  The 
Gondoliers  (26) 

Introduction  by  CLARENCE  DAY,  Jr. 

GISSING,  GEORGE   (1857-1903) 

The  Private  Papers  of  Henry  Ryecroft  (46) 
Introduction  by  PAUL  ELMER  MORE 

De  GONCOURT,  E.  and  J.   (1822-1896)    (1830-1870) 

Renee  Mauperin   (76) 

Introduction  by  EMILE  ZOLA 

GORKY,    MAXIM    (1868-        ) 

Creatures  That  Once  Were  Men  and  Four   Other 
Stories  (48) 

Introduction  by  G.  K.  CHESTERTON 

HARDY,  THOMAS   (1840-        ) 

The  Mayor  of  Casterbridge   (17) 
Introduction  by  JOYCE  KILMER 

HUDSON,  W.  H.  (1862-        ) 

Green  Mansions   (89) 

Introduction  by  JOHN  GALSWORTHY 

IBANEZ,  VICENTE  BLASCO  (1867-        ) 

The    Cabin    (69) 

^.ntroduction  by  JOHN  GARRETT  UNDERHILL 


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A  Doll's  House,  Ghosts,  An  Enemy  of  the  People  (6)  ; 
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The  Wild  Duck,  Rosmersholm,  The  League   of  Youth 
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JAMES,  HENRY  (1843-1916) 

Daisy  Miller  and  An  International  Episode   (63) 
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KIPLING,  RUDYARD    (1865-        ) 
Soldiers  Three   (3) 

LATZKO,  ANDREAS  (1876-        ) 
Men  in  War    (88) 

LOTI,  PIERRE   (1850-        ) 
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MACY,  JOHN  (1877-        ) 

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De  MAUPASSANT,   GUY    (1850-1893) 
Love  and  Other  Stories   (72) 

Edited  and  translated  with  an   Introduction  by 
MICHAEL  MONAHAN 
Mademoiselle   Fifi,  and   Twelve   Other   Stories    (8) 
Une  Vie   (57) 

Introduction  by  HENRY  JAMES 

MEREDITH,  GEORGE   (1828-1909) 
Diana  of  the  Crossways   (14) 

Introduction  by  ARTHUR  SYMONS 

MOORE,  GEORGE  (1853-        ) 

Confessions  of  a  Young  Man  (16) 

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MORRISON,  ARTHUR  (1863-        ) 
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Thus  Spake  Zarathustra   (9) 

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Beyond  Good  and  Evil  (20) 

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WILLARD  HUNTINGTON  WRIGHT 
Genealogy  of  Morals  (62) 

NORRIS,  FRANK   (1870-1902) 
McTeague    (60) 

Introduction  by  HENRY  S.  PANCOAST 

PATER,  WALTER   (1839-1894) 
Marius  the  Epicurean  (90) 
The  Renaissance  (86) 

Introduction  by  ARTHUR   SYAIONS 
Samuel  Pepys'  Diary  (103) 

Condensed  with  an   Introduction  by 
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PREVOST,  ANTOINE  FRANCOIS    (1697-1763) 
Manon  Lescaut    (85) 

In  same  volume  with  Daudet's   Sapho 

RODIN,  THE  ART  OF   (1840-1917) 

64  Black  and  White  Reproductions   (41) 

Introduction  by  LOUIS  WEINBERG 

SCHNITZLER,  ARTHUR   (1862-        ) 

Anatol,  Living  Hours,  The  Green  Cockatoo  (32) 

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Bertha  Garlan  (39) 

SCHOPENHAUER,   ARTHUR    (1788-1860) 
Studies  in  Pessimism  (12) 

Introduction  by  T.  B.  SAUNDERS 

SHAW,  G.  B.   (1856-        ) 

An  Unsocial  Socialist  (15) 
SINCLAIR,  MAY 

The   Belfry    (68) 
STEPHENS,  JAMES 

Mary,  Mary   (30) 

Introduction  by  PADRIAC  COLUM 

STEVENSON,  ROBERT  LOUIS  (1850-1894) 

Treasure  Island   (4) 
STIRNER,   MAX    (Johann  Caspar   Schmidt)    (1806-1859) 

The  Ego  and  His  Own  (49) 


Modern  Library  of  the  World's  Best  Books 


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Married  (2) 

Introduction  by   THOMAS    SELTZER 
Miss   Julie,   The    Creditor,   The    Stronger    Woman, 
Motherly  Love,  Paria,  Simoon  (52) 

SUDERMANN,  HERMANN   (1857-        ) 

Dame  Care  (33) 
SWINBURNE,  ALGERNON  CHARLES   (1837-1909) 

Poems   (23) 

Introduction  by  ERNEST  RHYS 

THOMPSON,  FRANCIS   (1859-1907) 
Complete   Poems    (38) 

TOLSTOY,  LEO   (1828-1910) 

Redemption  and  Two  Other  Plays  (77) 

Introduction   by   ARTHUR   HOPKINS 
The  Death  of  Ivan  Ilyitch  and  Four  Other  Stories  (64) 

TURGENEV,  IVAN  (1818-1883) 
Fathers  and  Sons   (21) 

Introduction  by  THOMAS  SELTZER 
Smoke   (80) 

Introduction  by  JOHN  REED 

VILLON,  FRANCOIS  (1431-1461) 
Poems  (58) 

Introduction  by  JOHN  PAYNE 

VOLTAIRE,  (FRANCOIS  MARIE  AROUET)   (1694-1778) 
Candide    (47) 

Introduction  by  PHILIP  LITTELL 

WELLS,  H.  G.   (1866-        ) 
Ann  Veronica   (27) 
The  War  in  the  Air '(5) 

New  Preface  by  H.  G.  Wells   for  this  edition 

WHITMAN,  WALT    (1819-        ) 
Poems  (97) 

Introduction  by   CARL  SANDBURG 

WILDE,  OSCAR  (1859-1900) 

An  Ideal  Husband,  A  Woman  of  No  Importance    (84) 

Dorian  Gray  (i) 

Fairy  Tales  and  Poems  in  Prose   (61) 

Intentions   (96) 

Lady  Windermere's  Fan  (83) 

Introduction  by  EDGAR  SALTUS 
Poems   (19) 
Salome.  The  Importance  of  Being  Ernest. 


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WILSON,  WOODROW   (1856-        ) 

Selected  Addresses  and  Public  Papers   (55) 

Edited  with  an  Introduction  bv 
ALBERT   BUSHNELL   HART 

WOMAN  QUESTION,  THE  (59) 

A   Symposium,  including  Essays  by  Ellen  Key, 
Havelock  Ellis,  G.  Lowes  Dickinson,  etc. 

Edited  by  T„  R.   SMITH 

YEATS,  W.  B.   (1865-        ) 

Irish  Fairy  and  Folk  Tales  (44) 


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